


The Collected Adventures

by BookGirlFan



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Family, Friends as Family, Friendship, Gen, Hanukkah, Humour, Kid!Lock, Slice of Life, crossover with Oliver Twist one chapter, crossover with Smurfs one chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 158
Words: 34,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlFan/pseuds/BookGirlFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various short stories and drabbles from Baker Street and surrounds. Updated sporadically. </p><p>Reposted from fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phone Call

"Mycroft-"

A choked sob.

"He's gone, Mycroft. I couldn't get there in time. It's all my fault! I should have been faster!"

More sobbing. Mycroft stayed quiet, out of his depth in such an emotional situation.

A deep breath.

"It's just so sudden. We were on a case, and he had a gun, and he jumped in front of me, and - and he was shot, and now he's just gone!"

Another deep breath.

"Tell Mrs Hudson, Mycroft. She needs to know, and I'm not leaving. Not yet. Goodbye Mycroft."

The line went dead and Mycroft quietly hung up the phone.


	2. Bride

This was the best day of my life. Mary Morstan had consented to be my wife, and today we were to be wed. I stood at the altar, Sherlock Holmes at my side. To my gratification, he had consented to be my best man.

The doors opened, and Mary came out and started walking down the aisle. I was struck at once by her beauty. She wore white, following the Queen's new tradition. Her blonde hair was resting freely on her shoulders, and her blue eyes shone brightly. I could hardly believe that this beautiful creature was soon to be my wife.

She came to stand beside me at the altar. The priest began to speak. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of John Hamish Watson and Mary Morstan in holy matrimony..."

I must confess, I did not pay full attention to the priest. Mary was standing beside me, and I was anticipating the moment that she would be mine. After the whole affair of the Sign of Four, I feared that she would be too rich to consider marrying a poor man like me. Fortunately for me, the treasure was lost, and she agreed to be my wife. My happiness was complete.

Finally, the words I had been waiting for. "You may kiss the bride."


	3. Superior Officer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted by KCS's Dr Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes: #14 – Command, over on fanfiction.net. Go read it; it's really good!

I look down the rocks at the grieving man below me, aim steady, thoughts rushing through my head. This is a man who has obviously just lost everything. My orders were to kill him if Holmes lived, but I can not. What has the man done, to deserve death? He had followed his commanding officer, obeyed the orders given, and been faithful to the last. I can not reward such loyal service with death.

I lower my gun. The man does not deserve to die for following orders. I will wait until he is gone, before I kill Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was prompted by KCS's Dr Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes (again!), specifically #20-Picture.

He leant back in his chair, eyes wandering around the room, coming to rest on the picture on the mantel. His flawless memory made photographs entirely unnecessary, yet he kept the picture anyway. His gaze drifted to the desk. Another photograph sat there, and was similarly purposeless. Why did he keep these photos?

He clasped his hands, deep in thought. Why should he keep those photographs, he knew them perfectly. Such sentiment would be uncharacteristic of him. Yet, it seemed so. Finally, it came to him. He kept those pictures as a testament, to the two people he respected most.


	5. Mad

Why anyone would want to room with Sherlock Holmes I'll never know, but somehow, he got himself a flatmate. A Doctor John Watson was with him during that Jefferson Hope affair in '81, and the lads at the station took bets on how long he would last. I didn't think he would last long. An old soldier wouldn't be able to stand Mr Holmes. We at the Yard could hardly stand him, and we only had to see him on cases!

After six weeks the man was still there, and I had to wonder if he was sane. Anyone else would have left after the first week, yet here he was. Even more extraordinary, Mr Holmes seemed to actually like him!

After the first six months I was sure. The man must be mad. He had not only stayed with Sherlock Holmes, but actually seemed to enjoy it! The final proof came when I saw them in the park one afternoon, strolling along, arm in arm. Anyone who would do that had to be crazy, there was no other explanation.

I have known Dr Watson for fifteen years now, and a better man I have never known. He has endured more than any man should, and survived. On some days, however, I still think he and Sherlock Holmes belong in Bedlam!


	6. Bang

"Nothing interesting in the papers then, Holmes?"

"Absolutely nothing Watson! When did London criminals become so dull? We haven't had an interesting case in weeks."

"I thought the Highmore case rather intriguing, actually. Quite a puzzle."

"It was simplicity itself, Watson. It was obvious from the feathers on her shoe. Anyway, there is now nothing to do, but for me to go back to my scientific puzzles."

"I figured as much, when I saw you at your chemical corner. Is that substance meant to be such an interesting purple? Holmes?"

"What is it, Watson?"

"That purple, Ho- Look out!"

BANG!


	7. Painful Lesson

"That Dr Watson's stories, are they? Never really thought much of them. I prefer a decent piece of writing myself, rather than that claptrap. I would be offended to be associated with it, if I were you," Andrew Wilkins finished with a sneer. He had come to consult Sherlock Holmes on a case, and the Strand issues on the shelf had caught his eye.

"Fortunately, you are not me. Please keep your opinions to yourself, Mr Wilkins, and stick to the facts." The detective scowled at his unpleasant guest, being very grateful that Watson was out, and could not hear the conversation.

"I'm just saying, I have no idea why you put up with such moronic drivel."

Much to his surprise, the detective stood up and gestured to the door. "Your case is uninteresting, and your manner is unpleasant. Leave these rooms at once."

"This is a very important case," Wilkins blustered. "It cannot be disregarded like this, Mr Holmes!"

"That is where you are wrong. If you cannot remain civil, I must ask you to leave."

"I shall, as I have no intention of staying here and being insulted. Maybe that stupid writing is all you deserve." With this parting shot, Wilkins turned to leave, but found his way blocked by an irate consulting detective.

When Wilkins went to Scotland Yard to complain, the constable in charge advised him to be glad he had only a bloody nose to show for his comments, and quite politely told him that if he would not keep his opinions of the Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to himself, the Yard would be happy to add to his injuries.

Needless to say, Wilkins left rather quickly after that, and was not heard of at the Yard or 221B again.


	8. My Friend

The case of the Speckled Band, as Watson romatically named it, alarmed Holmes by showing him the true extent of Watson's regard for him. Why would the doctor risk his life on such a foolhardy venture, simply because he was asked?

Holmes pondered the question, but could not find an answer. He was used to such risks as a part of his profession, but Watson was not, and need not have come. So why had he?

In his confusion, Holmes asked Watson why he had not just let him go alone. Watson looked at Holmes, and replied, a smile on his face, "Because, Holmes, you are my friend, and I will not let you face danger without me."


	9. A Friend Departed

My friend died two years ago today, at Reichenbach Falls. He was not an emotive man, and never outwardly expressed signs of friendship, but I could see it regardless. It was in the small things, how he let me stay by his side when I did not understand what he did, or the well hidden delight when I praised his work. He was a genius in his field, the first of his kind. Only I will miss him, as no others truly knew him. Even I did not know him well. Yes, today, two years ago, Professor James Moriarty died.


	10. Wig

Holmes?"

Holmes turned to see Watson looking at him with a faintly amused expression. He was holding up a wig that Holmes had carelessly left in his chair earlier that morning. "What might this be?"

"I would have thought that obvious, Watson," Holmes said dismissively. Internally, he hoped that Watson had not realized where the disguise was from. "It is a wig. One of mine to be precise, so if you could-" He reached a hand out, and Watson gave the wig to him. Holmes hastened into his bedroom to put it away.

"Strange," Watson's voice carried through from the sitting room. "I'm sure that looks familiar." His voice still held a tone of amusement. "I wonder where I could have seen it? Oh, I know! It looks a lot like the hair of a man that helped with my bags yesterday. Now, I wonder how that could be?"

Holmes slowly walked back into the sitting room, to see Watson smirking at him. "Honestly, Holmes. I'm not an idiot. I've lived with you long enough to know when you are in disguise. I just want to know why you did it?"

"I was in the area for some research, and I was already in disguise, so-" Holmes flustered his way through.

Watson laughingly waved him off. "Thank you, Holmes."

"No bother."


	11. Green

"Really Watson, how was I to know it would turn your hair green?"

Sherlock Holmes scowled across the room, where Dr Watson was steadfastly ignoring him. "Indeed," he continued. "I would not have spilt if you hadn't disturbed me."

Watson turned to look incredulously at Holmes. "Are you saying this is my fault?"

"Well, it is your fault, Watson. If you hadn't disturbed me, my chemicals would not have spilt on you. You can't blame me for that."

"Holmes, you were holding it above my head!"

"You shouldn't have moved." Holmes replied serenely.

Watson was incensed. "I just woke up!"


	12. Feet

"Mr Holmes?" Lestrade called as he entered the room. "Mr Holmes, I've come to-"

Before he could finish, he was shocked speechless at the unusual sight of Holmes's feet rising from behind Dr Watson's desk. Dr Watson himself was sitting in his arm chair, seemingly unconcerned by whatever Holmes was doing.

"Do come in, Lestrade," Watson greeted warmly, looking up from his book. "Please, take a seat. This is frightful weather to be walking around in."

Lestrade took a seat by the fireplace as the doctor rang for tea. "I just came to tell you how the Rungley case wrapped up. What is Mr Holmes doing, Doctor?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Apparently, it is a necessary part of his current case. The victim was found in such a position, and Holmes is trying to discover the cause."

Lestrade took another glance at the detective, and once again marveled that he had found a flatmate so ready to put up with him.


	13. On the Train

I watch Watson as he sleeps, head resting against the window. He has loyally followed me this far, but is it really fair for me to ask him to continue? I know that he will come with me as soon as I ask, and probably will come even if I don't ask. He is my faithful friend.

Is it fair to ask him to come this time? Moriarty is a criminal unlike any before. This could be very dangerous, and though I am willing to risk my life to rid the world of him, I am not prepared to risk Watson's.

He has a wife waiting for him back in England. Though I dislike her for taking Watson away from Baker Street, she is truly fond of him, and I must respect her. I will not allow Mary Watson to be widowed.

Having resolved that, I should tell Watson to go home, and leave me, but I cannot. I am selfish, I know, but I cannot let my only source of comfort leave. Without Watson, I should sink into a pit of the blackest despair. I must not allow that, not with Moriarty so close on our trail.

I know that Watson would not leave my side even if I did ask. What man could be more faithful than my biographer?


	14. Scene on Ship

There is a man standing by the railing. He is much thinner than his build seems to indicate, and he stands ramrod straight against the wind. That he used to be a soldier is obvious from his stance, even if we weren't on an Army ship.

I walk over to the rail. The storm is building, and all passengers must get below. I notice the way the man holds his left shoulder stiffly, and carefully walk to his other side, before touching his right shoulder. He swiftly turns and looks at me. At once I am struck by the haunted look in his hazel eyes, a look that speaks all too clearly of a place far away, and the horrors of war there. This man seems to be my own age, only twenty six. What horrors must he have seen to have such spectres lurking in his eyes?

Seeing me, the haunted look recedes, replaced by a careful blankness. The shadows are still there, but they hide behind a careful mask of nothingness. I sense that this is a man with a fierce pride, who will not accept any special treatment.

I shout over the wind. The storm is picking up, and even at close quarters it is hard to hear a word.

"I'm sorry sir, you'll have to get below!"


	15. Shot

"Step well away, sirs, if you wish to keep your lives. I am quite capable of dispatching them if you come any closer."

The men exchanged glances and snorted in laughter, thinking there was nothing to fear from the thin, ill looking man with a limp.

"We got yer friend beat, wot's to say we won't get you beat too? Ya reckon we can, mates?" One of the gang blustered, hefting a club in his hands.

His gang sneered. Their sneers turned to girlish squeals when each of their clubs were systematically blown to splinters by well placed gun shots.


	16. Letter

Dear Sally,

Oh my dear sister, what a horrible time it has been for me! Just a few days ago, I attracted the attention of a Mr Thomas Escott, a plumber. I accepted his attentions, and hoped it would spur Arthur Newell on, so that he would finally propose. Eventually, Mr Escott asked me to marry him, and I didn't see any reason to say no. I may not have truly loved him, but he had a rising business, and it didn't seem like Arthur would ever ask! A girl can't wait forever, you know, even for love.

Just a few days later, there was a disturbance one night. The whole household was woken to the sound of gunshots. Mr Lewis went into the master's room, and found him dead on the floor! I right near fainted, I did, when I heard that. They almost caught the men who did it, but they got away.

The next morning, after Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard left, I got a note from Mr Escott, breaking our engagement. I just sat down and cried, it was just too much. Alfred came out, and saw me crying. He sat down, and well, the important news is, he proposed! Two proposals in one week, and never one in my life before now. We are getting married in three weeks time. Wish me luck, sister!

Your darling sister,

Betty


	17. Wrong

Watson lay on the floor, barely conscious. His injuries were horrific, and I feared if his wounds did not receive attention soon, his life may be forfeit. I had suffered nothing but bruises and cuts, which made my self disgust all the worse. If I had not made such an amateur's mistake, in theorizing before all the data had been accumulated, this would not have happened.

I had, fortunately, alerted the Yard to our destination, but they may not arrive in time to save Watson's life.

I kneel by Watson's unconscious form, knowing I must admit this."I was wrong."


	18. Nightmares

I sit beside my companion as he sleeps. At first, the sleep is peaceful. Soon, his eyes begin to flicker behind his eyelids, and he mutters softly. His murmurs become louder, turning into names. Some I know, some I don't. He starts to thrash, calling loudly for the men in his dreams.

I shake him, and call his name. "Wake up, old man. Wake up now."

He startles awake, sitting bolt upright. He looks wildly around the room, then sees me and calms. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"You're welcome."

We sit in awkward silence for a few more moments.


	19. Sleepless Nights

"What is it this time, Inspector?" Holmes muttered wearily.

I valiantly tried to hide my smile. "Terribly sorry, Mr Holmes, but I believe you left your coat when you were at the Yard yesterday. I thought I should return it to you."

Holmes groaned. "One or another of you Inspectors has been here every hour for the entire night, and I have not had any sleep! For the final time, this is not mine! I did not leave my hat, coat, umbrella, shoes, muffler, or" - shudder-"puppy, at the Yard, so do not keep asking!"

A muffled giggle was heard from upstairs, and Holmes's gaze sharpened. "Watson!"


	20. An Unexpected Visitor

One evening, while my wife and I were enjoying a quiet night at home, a young lady came in. Mary stood and greeted her warmly. "Zaria, how nice to see you! John, this is Azaria Bankers. Zaria, my husband John Watson."

At the mention of my name, the young woman started. "Doctor Watson, the writer for the Strand?"

"Yes, that is I."

Miss Bankers smiled widely. "What good fortune! My sister is such a fan, she has read all your stories. I had come to see Mary, but to meet you as well is a marvelous surprise. My sister would be jealous."

"How is your sister?" Mary inquired.

Miss Bankers looked very sad. "Very unfortunate, I'm afraid."

Mary looked worried. "Is she ill?"

"Worse," Miss Bankers said with a sad countenance. "She's married."

"Why, that's wonderful news! When was she married?" Mary asked.

"She was married just last Thursday, and is yet on honeymoon, or I should have asked her assistance." At this admittance, the young lady looked highly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, I had not meant to say anything."

"Nonsense, Azaria, I will do whatever within my power to help you. Now, what is your trouble?"

"I am afraid I very much need a place to stay," Azaria said. "May I stay here for a time?"

Mary looked at me. "John?"

What was I to say against two women looking at me so beseechingly?


	21. Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, and I am posting it only for consistency's sake.

We would be very glad to have you here," I said. "Any friend of Mary's is a friend of mine."

"Thank you very much!" Miss Bankers smiled. "I am afraid I do not know where I would be without you."

"Come, you will stay in the guest room. This way, Zaria," Mary said. The two women disappeared down the hall, and I was left to reflect on our young guest.


	22. A Normal Night

Mary and Azaria are in the sitting room, sewing and chatting quietly. Watson is out with Holmes for the night, and the women are enjoying a night to themselves.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and Watson enters, half carrying, half dragging Holmes.

"Mary," he calls. "Get my bag from upstairs."

Mary hurries upstairs and quickly comes back down, black doctors bag in hand. She hands it to Watson, then goes into the kitchen for warm water.

In a matter of minutes, Holmes's gash is cleaned and bandaged and he is resting on the lounge.

Azaria, slightly stunned, asks, "What happened?


	23. Fight

"Hey, hey! What's going on here!" Hopkins shouted as he entered the alley. He rushed up to the two men fighting on the ground, and pulled Holmes off the villain.

"What's this about?" Hopkins asked him.

Holmes drew himself upright and brushed off his clothing. "This," he said. "Is Rowan McCowling. He is the man who robbed and murdered Jim Lowell. Deal with him." He stalked off to another part of the alley.

Hopkins watched him, and saw him stop by a figure sitting up against the wall.

'Dr Watson,' he thought, no longer surprised that Holmes had fought McCowling.


	24. Special Occasion

"Yer sure about this, missus?" Wayne asks doubtfully. "Oi don't think Mr 'Olmes would loike it."

"Well, he may not like it, but the Doctor would, and so would I," Mrs Hudson says, looking at the boy standing in her front hall. "This is a special day, it deserves a special celebration."

"Alright," Wayne reluctantly agrees. "What do I hafta do?"

The preparations are quickly made, and soon the house is filled with the scent of biscuits baking.

"They're coming, missus 'Udson!" Wayne says, hopping up and down in anticipation.

Mrs Hudson comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "The biscuits are baked, and lunch is ready. Now we just have to wait."

Just then the door opened, and Holmes and Watson come in.

"Another case concluded!" Holmes says happily. He heads up the stairs, calling after him, "Bring the lunch up, Mrs Hudson!"

Watson smiles apologetically at Mrs Hudson, then hurries up the stairs after Holmes.

After they have both disappeared into their sitting room, Mrs Hudson smiles widely at Wayne. "I will bring the lunch up now, and it will be the best lunch they've ever had! Come on boy, help me with the tray." When Wayne hesitates, she continues, "I have a few cookies left over, that you may have for helping me. But only if you're good, mind. No stealing pieces off the tray."

"Oi wouldn't do that, missus!" Wayne says indignantly.

Mrs Hudson looks at him sternly. "See that you don't."

Between the two of them, the food is brought upstairs, and laid on the table.

"Lunch is served," Mrs Hudson says and she takes a seat. The two men look at her, astonished.

"My dear Mrs Hudson," Holmes says. "What is the meaning of this?"

"It's quite simple, sirs," she replies, smiling. "Do you not know what today is?"

Holmes and Watson look at each other, confusion on their faces.

"And you a detective too," Mrs Hudson tuts, looking reprovingly at Holmes. "We are celebrating," she says clearly. "Because today, five years ago, two young men turned up on my doorstep, asking to hire my rooms. Seeing them now," she continues, looking around the room. "I'm not sure I should have agreed."

The two squirm under her gaze, then hastily take their seats at the table. "Let's eat!"

"Hey! What about me?" A small voice pipes up. "Oi helped! What about them biscuits, missus?"

"Of course! I am sorry gentlemen, I'll be right back." Mrs Hudson and Wayne go downstairs and into the kitchen.

"Thank you very much for your help today, young man," Mrs Hudson says, looking Wayne in the eye.

The boy shifts slightly under the attention. "That's alright. Yer nice, missus 'Udson. Yer like-" He falters.

"Like who?" Mrs Hudson asks.

He looks at the floor. "Yer a bit like me mum." Before Mrs Hudson can say anything, Wayne grabs the biscuits from her outstretched hands, and races out the door.

She makes her way back up the stairs to the meal waiting there, thankful for her two lodgers, and wondering what had happened to the boy who had been sitting in her kitchen, that he ended up on the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wayne is an Irregular I created and have used in other stories.


	25. What Could Have Been

_"John, come quickly!" Mary cried from the nursery. Watson and Holmes, who had been talking by the fire in the sitting room, rushed up the stairs, fearing attack._

_They stopped in the doorway, caught by the sight before them. The Watsons' son was stumbling across the room, his blond curls askew._

_"He's walking, John," Mary said softly. "Sherlock is walking."_

_"Daddy!" An excited young voice came from the kitchen, "Daddy, you're home!" A brown haired blur propelled itself into John waiting arms. Young Anna, named after Mary's old employer, was a three year old blur of energy. She looked at her daddy with the blue eyes of her mother, and eagerly told him, "Mommy and me made biscuits!"_

_***  
"How was school?" John asked his son as they sat around the dinner table. Sherlock grinned at him. "I liked it. They let me do experiments like I do with Uncle Sherlock."_

_John and Mary exchanged half amused, half fearful glances. Their son was growing up to be very much like his uncle Sherlock, and they were not yet sure what to think of that._

_"Why can't I go to school, Daddy?" Anna asked John. "Sherlock goes to school."_

_"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but girls aren't allowed in school." John hated to say it, but even Mycroft's considerable influence on behalf of his pseudo niece had not wavered school policy._

_Anna's pleading gaze turned to her mother. "Mummy, can't I go to school?" Mary shook her head, then brightened as an idea occurred. "What if I teach you instead, darling?"_

_The smile that lit up Anna's face was answer enough._

_***  
The years flew by, and Holmes retired, leaving a new detective to take his place. Sherlock Hamish Watson replaced him, to the delight of his godfather, and was in time accompanied by Dr Anna Watson as he solved crimes on the streets of London, with the occasional help from his uncles._

_***  
John had tears in his eyes as he walked his daughter down the aisle. The expression of the man waiting by the altar reminded him of his feelings when he married Mary, many years ago. She took her place by the altar, and he went to sit with his wife and both Holmes's, who had come into the city just for the wedding._

_"Anna Martha Watson, do you take Robert Gregory Lestrade to be your lawful wedded husband?"_

_Looking straight into the eyes of her childhood friend, the son of her father's good friend, and the man she loved with all her heart, she said, "I do."_

_***  
After many years, John and Mary retired to Sussex, to live in a small cottage, gifted by Holmes, that held a remarkable proximity to a certain beekeeper's cottage. They had many visitors, including their two children, and eventually grandchildren, and had many evenings spent by the fire with an old friend, remembering the remarkable lives they had led._

At Baker Street, the night after Holmes's return, John Watson slept on, a soft smile on his face, dreaming of a world death had not touched.


	26. 221B Challenge

"Doctor, is that blood?"

"Your deductive abilities are boundless. Yes, Holmes, this is blood."

"Were you not simply going out to see to Mrs Bryant?"

"Yes, but things went bad. Her daughter was playing in the backyard, a girl called Bella. Bella was playing with her brother. They climbed a tree, but Bella fell, and her arm broke."

"But what about the blood?"

"I'm getting there Holmes, give me a break! Bella's brother also fell, a boy named Brad. He was severely scratched, and that is the cause for the blood. I cleaned his scratches, and he sat bravely. I told him next time, not to disobey his mother so brazenly. Then I dealt with his sister's break. When I left, both children were in bed. They will have quite a story to tell their buddies."

"Yes, children do so like to brag. Watson, have you had breakfast?"

"No, Holmes, I have been too busy. Would you ring the bell?"

"I do not need to use the bell. Mrs Hudson, bring up breakfast!"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for breakfast. I do love eggs and bacon. Holmes, would you sit down and stop looking so black?"

"I will sit, Watson, but I do not want breakfast."

"Alright, Holmes, I am too tired for berating."

"Watson, I do suggest you go to bed."


	27. King

"I am insulted!" The King said, striding to the doorway. "You will regret this, Mr Holmes. I am a very influential man, and one day you will regret ever refusing me!" With that final remark, the man stormed out the door.

Watson turned to Holmes. "Why did you not simply take his case? There was no need to refuse on my account, I could have simply left the room."

"And what, proceed without my Boswell? No, my dear Watson, it is either both or none."

Holmes took up his violin and moved to the window, heedless of Watson's pleased smile.


	28. Black Mood

"Was this really what you had in mind, Holmes, when you said you needed more dirt for your disguise?" Watson asked in amusement.

Holmes scowled at him. "You know very well that it was not. I said I needed more dirt, not to be covered head to foot in coal dust!"

Watson snickered. "It was quite a sight. The mighty Sherlock Holmes, tumbling through the air, crashing through the roof of a shed."

Holmes deigned not to answer, choosing instead to glare fiercely at Watson.

Watson, entirely unaffected, continued. "Really Holmes, must you look so morose? You are almost as black now as you were covered in coal dust earlier!"


	29. Storytelling

"Then, the man moved toward me..."

A small group of boys watched me with awestruck faces. They had been listening eagerly to my story, and were now waiting breathlessly for me to continue, the silence unbroken but for soft breathing. Suddenly, a boy coughed, and the spell was undone.

"Ye can't stop there, Doc!"

"What happened?"

"Didja die? Did Mr 'Olmes die?"

"'Course he didn't die, idjit. He's here, ain't he?"

I cleared my throat and the boys quieted. "Thank you, Wayne, for pointing that out. Now, do you want more of the story?"

A chorus of yes's were heard.


	30. God

I've never believed in God, but He is all that can help now. I can hear the bombs coming down, hear the reports on the radio at night. I only wish Watson was here to listen to them with me. But he is fighting in a war far away.

My brother is far too busy at the moment to do anything to help. Even if he was not, I fear that this is beyond his reach. So can help one soldier among thousands?

If there is a God out there, I pray He keeps Watson safe. Only He possibly could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to add that these are not my own opinions, but those I imagine Holmes to have.


	31. Not Hungry

"No."

"Please, sir, you must eat something!"

"I do not wish to eat anything. Now, Mrs Hudson, leave me."

"How about some soup? I could bring you up some soup."

"I do not want anything, Mrs Hudson, and I do not appreciate you prying into my affairs."

"I know you miss the doctor, sir, but you need to eat something."

"I do not wish to eat anything, and please do not presume to know what I am feeling."

"Please, Mr Holmes, just eat something."

"I will not eat, Mrs Hudson."

"After this, Dr Watson will never go on holidays again."

I'm sure I'm not mistaken when I hear a soft "I can only hope" from the seat by the window. Poor Mr Holmes. I can't grudge the doctor his holidays, not when he has Mr Holmes to deal with all the time, but I wish he would come home soon.


	32. Encouragement Pt 1

"I - think we can - make it," Holmes said. "Hold still, Watson!"

"It is not easy to stay still with you standing on my shoulders! How can you only eat enough to feed a bird, yet still weigh so heavy?"

How did we get in this position, you ask? We had been chasing Cole Roberts around the warehouse district of London, and he had trapped us in a cellar. Now, we were endevouring to escape before the Thames flooded the cellar completely. I was already up to my waist, and it was rising quickly.

"Holmes, can you go a bit faster? The water is coming in rapidly." I groaned with the effort of trying to keep Holmes steady on my shoulders.

Holmes glanced down at me in frustration. "I am trying, Watson! The water is making my lock pick rather slippery."

Suddenly, to our combined horror, the pick slipped from Holmes's hands, and fell with a splash into the water, now at my shoulders.

"We must try something else. Holmes, if I bent down, could you push the trapdoor?"

"Is there nothing else, Watson?"

"Nothing that will work in time. The water is at my chin already."

Holmes nodded, looking nervous. I grabbed his arm. "You can do this, Holmes. I believe."


	33. Encouragement Pt 2

I furiously hammered the trapdoor over my head. Watson could only hold his breath so long, and when he could hold no longer, I should fall with him.

I could feel the water lapping at my feet. The water was now over Watson's head. I increased my efforts on the trapdoor, and finally it broke loose. I grabbed hold of the ledge, pulling myself up. Suddenly, I was hanging by my arms from the opening, as my feet dropped out from under me.

"Watson?" I called, despite knowing that Watson could not possibly answer me. I hauled myself out of the cellar, now mostly flooded with water.

I turned my attention to the room I now found myself in, and frantically searched the shelves for some sort of light. I discovered a lamp, hastily lit it, and returned to the open trapdoor. Watson was nowhere in sight.

I sat the lamp on the floor and dive back into the waters. The light only faintly penetrated the gloom of the cellar, and the murky water admitted no light. Blindly, I searched, and was rewarded by a figure sinking down. Quickly, I grabbed Watson and pulled him out of the water.

I pulled us out of the water, and onto the warehouse floor.

Watson coughed and spluttered, "Thank you Holmes."

"Just keep breathing."


	34. Play

"I wanna be Mr Holmes!"

"No, I'm gonna be Mr Holmes!"

"Nu-uh! I am!"

"Must be nice to be so popular," Watson remarked to Holmes with a mischievous smile.

Holmes snorted. "I do not regard the play acting of children as popularity."

They continued their way through the park.


	35. Run

"Run, Watson!" The cry comes from behind him, spurning him onwards. "Run!" Holmes sounds frantic, desperate, and quickly drawing closer. His limping run is no match for Holmes's frenzied pace.

He hears shouts behind him, and runs faster. The shouts grow louder, and seem excited. In sudden dread, he turns around, and sees that Holmes is no longer behind him.

He turns back, fear for his friend fueling his gait. As he draws near he pulls his revolver.

"Stand back, all of you!"

The men see his gun and run. He kneels next to Holmes.

"Never again," he whispers softly.


	36. Infuriating

"Is this what you were looking for?" Watson asks amusedly, holding out a bundle of papers.

Holmes scowls. "Yes." He snatches the papers, then collapses into his chair and glares at the fireplace.

After a few moments silence, Holmes has calmed enough to ask a question he has been pondering for some time. "Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?" Watson looks genuinely puzzled.

Holmes gestures with his pipe. "How do you know just walk into a room and know where things are?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," Watson replies, looking slightly embarrassed. "I suppose I can just remember where things are."

"That will not suffice. You can find anything I am looking for, even when I have- let us say- rearranged, the room. That cannot simply be a matter of memory."

"I truly do not know, Holmes," Watson says. "I believe it may just be a matter of knowing you well enough to know how you have 'rearranged' the room, and remembering things were originally. It is simply instinct and practice."

Holmes dismisses the subject with a wave of his hand. Though he is not yet satisfied with Watson's answers, he can see that the subject is making Watson uncomfortable.

"Well, it is remarkably useful at times, my dear Watson, though I must confess, it is also your single most annoying characteristic."

Holmes is very amused by Watson's look of surprise at that announcement.

"But Holmes, why?"

"Tell my Watson, have you ever had someone come into the room and find exactly what you were looking for within moments, after you had spent the last two hours looking for it? I can tell you, it is most infuriating!"


	37. Hurting

He is hurting.

I can see it in the way he walks into the room, shuffling in, favoring one leg. I can hear it in his voice, sounding far too tired. He looks older than I know he is. It isn't hard to deduce that he has been waking up at night, shouting names, of people and places, many that I don't know, and some that are far too familiar. The dark patches under his eyes make that much obvious.

I walk over and hand him my flask of coffee. He looks at me, and smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Lestrade."


	38. Her Boys

"Really, I'm fine, boys," Mrs Hudson said to her to worried lodgers. "I'm alright now."

"Mrs Hudson, a sprained wrist and bruising is not alright," Watson told her as he put a cast on her wrist. "This is serious." He stood back and looked at her warningly. "Now, you won't be doing any more housework for the next few days, but you should recover soon. Until then, please don't use that wrist."

He glanced at Holmes, who was searching the rooms for any trace of the intruders, furious at the injury to his housekeeper. "Holmes?"

"Three young men, most likely on a dare, inexperienced. Came from Campen Street, the dirt is distinctive. Left no more than an hour ago, they will not have had time to dispose of the evidence yet." Holmes spouted all this as he turned to the door, calling after him, "Coming, Watson?"

"I'll be right down," Watson called down the stairs. He turned back to Mrs Hudson. "I expect you to be careful, or Holmes might be making breakfast," Watson tried to joke, but Mrs Hudson could see that he was worried and disturbed by the break in, and her resulting injuries.

"I'll be fine, Doctor," she reassured him.

He nodded quickly, and followed after Holmes. She smiled. It was times like these, she loved her boys.


	39. Sorry

"The axle is broken," Watson said in a clipped tone. "We'll have to walk."

They started on the six mile trudge back to town, the silence hanging heavy between them. After a vicious argument at the start of their journey, neither had spared an unnecessary word towards the other.

During their long walk, Watson turned to Holmes. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I shouldn't have said that. I hope you can forgive me."

"My dear Watson, of course," Holmes replied warmly. Watson knew he would never apologize, but as the tension was replaced by companionable quiet, he found he really didn't mind.


	40. Wake

"Holmes!"

Holmes looked up from the newspaper he had hastily snatched moments ago. "Watson?"

Watson glared at him. "Holmes, that is not a proper way to wake someone!"

Looking at him with amusement well hidden behind a mask of confusion, Holmes asked, "Watson, what are you talking about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about," Watson crossly replied. "Your innocent act doesn't work on me."

"Really, Watson, I believe your tiredness has caused you to imagine things," Holmes said. "Go upstairs to bed."

As Holmes heard Watson leave the room and head upstairs, he grinned secretly. Really, it was Mrs Hudson's fault for leaving the feather duster in the lounge room. He couldn't help it if Watson was ticklish.


	41. Help

"Sherlock, please take a seat," Mycroft said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Sherlock disregarded the offer with a wave of his hand. "I'm not staying long, Mycroft. I have far too much to do today."

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment, then got down to business. "Why have you come to see me, Sherlock? Is this about Moriarty?"

"You know of him?" Sherlock's look of surprise quickly faded. "Of course you know of him." He hesitated. "Mycroft, I need your help."

"With what, my dear brother?" Mycroft was quite honestly startled by this. His brother had not asked for his help since Sherlock was 10. This must be a very serious matter.

"Moriarty is trying to kill me," Sherlock stated.

"You would not come here for protection, so it must be something else. Something to do with the doctor?" Mycroft theorized.

Sherlock looked abashed, but continued. "In the morning, I wish that you would drive Watson to the station. I fear that Moriarty may try to abduct him, before he can reach the station." He leant forward. "Please, Mycroft, you're the only one I can trust."

"Of course, Sherlock," Mycroft promised, shocked by the plea. As Sherlock left, he wondered about the deceptively ordinary man that had changed Sherlock so much, he would ask for help from his brother.


	42. Broken

"Quick Watson! Hide the glass!" Mrs Hudson heard Holmes mutter as she came up the stairs. She shook her head in despair. Those boys could never just learn to look after things. Oh no, she didn't blame the doctor for it. She knew he wasn't the one responsible.

It was Mr Holmes she blamed. Every piece of china she took upstairs came back down destroyed. She was now considering buying paper plates for their use, as it seemed anything else would be broken! Messing with chemicals, throwing cups at the walls, plates under the sofa cushions. It was simply unbelievable! Any other housekeeper would have given up and sent them away.

Yet Mrs Hudson knew she would never do that. Whatever their faults, these were her boys, and she would never throw them out of her home. It had become their home now as well. Instead she shook her head, opened the door, and asked, "Now what have you broken?"


	43. Lonely

"John?" Mary paused in her knitting to look at her husband.

"Yes, Mary?" he enquired.

"What will Sherlock be doing for Christmas?" she asked him. It had been bothering her for some time, not knowing what John's closest friend was doing for the holiday. Mary strongly believed no one should be alone on Christmas, having spent it alone in the past, and not wishing the experience on anyone else.

"Mrs Hudson usually goes to her sister's for Christmas, so Holmes and I would celebrate together. Not that it was much of a celebration. I believe the only reason Holmes celebrated was that I coerced him into it. Otherwise he would have ignored it entirely." John stared into the fire with a wistful smile, remembering past celebrations with Holmes. After a moment, he shook himself out of his reminiscing, and turned back to Mary. "Why did you ask?"

"I was just wondering, do you think he would like to come here for Christmas?" Mary asked, half-shyly. "I would like to have him here, and I don't think anyone should be alone at Christmas."

John leant over and kissed her softly. "Where did I find such a wonderful woman as you?"


	44. Injuries

He had been injured on cases many times. It was a part of his work. Some of his cases were easily solved from his armchair. Others involved leaving the flat and investigating around London. Most, however, included situations that were either dangerous, or would possibly become so. These cases became more frequent as the years passed.

Before he met Watson, if he was injured on a case, he would take care of injuries himself, and ignore them if possible. With his mental prowess, injuries were easily disregarded. He only ever went to the hospital if it was absolutely necessary, which he seldom deemed it to be. On a few memorable occasions, he had been injured while on official police cases. In those circumstances, the police surgeon on duty would take care of injuries.

It all changed when he met Watson. He had someone to watch his back, and look after any injuries that made it past Watson's formidable guard. He still tried to ignore injuries whenever possible, but Watson had an uncannily good eye for spotting any wounds or illnesses. With such a stalwart friend and companion, it was hard for him to imagine what life had been like before Watson. What had it been like before knowing when he woke from his sickbed, Watson would be sitting at his bedside?


	45. A Lonely Man

My brother has always been a lonely man, first by nature, then by choice. As a child, he was unpopular for his observations. Other children thought him strange, not understanding his deductive reasoning. He was very lonely, even more so when I left home at seventeen. He felt I had abandoned him, and never quite forgave me.

As an adult, he was still unpopular for his observations. As much as I argued with him, he would never see the wisdom of keeping some things to himself. Even the many injuries he gained were no deterrent.

I felt nothing but pity when I heard Sherlock had found a flatmate. Any man that tried to live with Sherlock would undoubtedly be driven out before the week had passed. It was, therefore, very much to my surprise that Sherlock's flatmate, a Dr Watson, had actually lasted an entire week. My surprise increased with every subsequent day. I even dared to hope that my brother had found himself a friend.

Impossible as it may have seemed, it appeared to be true. The man still lived with Sherlock an entire year later. Even after his wedding, Dr Watson continued to stay in touch with my brother. It seemed my brother had found the one man in London who would put up with him and his brilliance.


	46. Mistletoe

"Mary?" John called as he walked in the door."Where are you?"

"In the kitchen, darling," Mary called from another room. John walked further into the house, looking around the room. "Have you been decorating for Christmas?"

Mary came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes. Do you like it?"

"I love it," John said, smiling at his wife. Mary looked up at him, then giggled.

"I think you missed a decoration," she said. He looked up, and saw the mistletoe hanging over their heads.

"Merry Christmas, Mary," he whispered, before leaning down to kiss her.


	47. Sick

"Holmes, are you well?" Watson asked concernedly.

"Quite well, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, keeping his gaze away from Watson.

Watson strode over to Holmes, and faced him. Holmes reluctantly lifted his eyes to look at Watson, and at once Watson was struck by how pale his friend looked.

"Holmes, you are sick! Why did you not tell me?" he cried.

"You have been busy of late, Watson. I didn't want to trouble you."

"It is no trouble at all, Holmes," Watson said softly, pressing his hand to Holmes's forehead. "You know it is my greatest delight to assist you."


	48. Dismembered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line of this is from K9, Season 1, Episode 2: Liberation. It was too tempting to pass up!

"I cannot just sit here, waiting to be dismembered!" Watson shouted, throwing his hands up in the air.

Holmes sat back in his chair and watched, smoking his pipe. "My dear Watson, sitting here is your only reasonable option. If you leave the house, you will immediately be caught. I'm afraid you cannot help but sit here."

"But what of my patients, Holmes?" Watson asked, pacing the room. "I must care for them, many of them cannot afford another doctor."

"I fear that there is nothing you can do about it, Watson. You cannot leave this room."

Watson whirled in Holmes's direction. "What if one of my patients dies, because I did not go and care for them, and instead remained here? I can not let that happen."

"And if you go to care for them, and are killed?" Holmes asked, springing up from his chair. "No, Watson, I cannot let that happen. You must stay here."

Watson, surprised by the uncharacteristic display of affection, sat down on his chair. "Very well Holmes, I will stay."

Holmes took up his violin and started to play. Watson heard the unspoken thank you hidden in the music.

"You're welcome, Holmes," he murmured.


	49. Happy Birthday

"Azaria?" Mary called out into the house. "Where have you gone? I thought we were going on a walk?" She stopped a moment, listening. "Don't you remember?"

She walked silently through the darkened building, looking for signs that Azaria was still inside. She came to a halt. 'What if someone has broken in?' Trying to hold back such dark thoughts, she continued on her way, but with more caution than before.

Spying a poker, she lifted it, feeling safer now she had a weapon. "Zaria?" She called softly. "Where are you?"

There was no answer to her call. The house was silent, with no lights showing. Mary started to tremble. Azaria was missing, and John had not yet come home. Was this to do with Sherlock's work? Was she next?

Quickly Mary stopped those thoughts. "I will not be scared," she told herself. "John does sometimes work late, and Azaria may have gone out. There is nothing to be frightened of." Suddenly, a noise came from up the hall.

Having resolved to face whatever comes bravely, Mary walked up the hall and stopped outside the door. She put her ear to the keyhole, and listened closely. There was the sound of muffled whispers, and someone silencing them. Deciding the element of surprise was best, she threw the door open.

"Happy Birthday!"


	50. Twaddle

_Detective Smurf and Doctor Smurf were out for a walk one day in the forest, when they saw a smurf berry disappear under a bush._

_"Look, Detective Smurf!" cried Doctor Smurf. "A smurf berry has disappeared under that bush!"_

_"I see it, Doctor Smurf," said Detective Smurf. "We should follow it and see were it goes. Follow me, Doctor Smurf!"_

"What twaddle is this!" exclaimed Holmes, throwing down the paper I had given him. "Who are these little blue men, these 'smurfs'?"

"I believe they're part of a children's story, Holmes," I said.

Holmes snorted. "It will never catch on."


	51. Holidays

"What are you doing, Watson?" Holmes asked, lounging in his chair.

Watson paused in the act of taking his coat off the hook. "I'm going on holidays, Holmes. I'll be gone for a week." He started to smile. "Have you really forgotten?"

Holmes drew himself upright, the very picture of offended dignity. "I've hardly forgotten, seeing as you neglected to tell me."

"I've told you twice already, Holmes," Watson chuckled. "Goodbye, now."

Watson walked out the door, calling goodbye to Mrs Hudson as he went. Holmes watched as Watson called a cab, thinking to himself, 'One week, Watson, no more.'


	52. Return from Holidays

"I'm back," Watson said cheerily as he opened the door of the sitting room. Holmes appeared not to notice.

Watson quickly opened the window, waving away the clouds of smoke that had permeated the room. Holmes had been smoking for hours, and was still sitting in his armchair with his pipe. Watson sat in the opposite armchair, knowing it was useless to talk to his friend just then.

Suddenly Holmes leapt up and paced the room. "Why did he not escape at once?" he asked himself. "What did he have to gain by remaining in the room? The girl was dead, he did not bother with evidence, what was his purpose?"

"Perhaps a memento?" Watson ventured.

Holmes stopped in his tracks. "A memento..." he breathed. "I do believe you've got it, Watson! Quickly, we must go back to the scene. Come along!" He spun around and headed to the door, throwing Watson's coat in his general direction. Watson smiled, knowing that in his own way, Holmes was saying 'Welcome Home'.


	53. Alone at Christmas

Watson stared moodily into the fire, remembering Mary's words from a Christmas many years ago. Nobody should be alone on Christmas, she had said, with her soft, sweet smile. Not even Mr Holmes. That year, and every year following, Mary had insisted that Holmes come to join them for dinner on Christmas Day. Christmasses with Holmes and Mary were always amusing, and a time Watson had looked forward to every year.

When Holmes had died at Reichenbach, Christmas was very different. He and Mary celebrated the day together, but attended the Scotland Yard Christmas Party on Christmas Eve.

Then Mary had died, and Watson's world had been destroyed again. Now, he was spending his Christmas alone, the one thing Mary had hated for anyone to do.

Watson's musings were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Come in!" He called.

Lestrade looked hesitantly around the door frame. "Good evening, Doctor, and a Merry Christmas."

"Is it?" Watson said in a low biting tone. He continued more loudly. "Merry Christmas to you too, Lestrade. Please, take a seat."

"No thank you, Doctor." Lestrade gripped his hat, nervously twisting it between his hands. "I just came to extend an invitation to spend Christmas with my family."

"I really couldn't impose, Lestrade," Watson said, touched by the offer.

"It's no imposition at all, Doctor," Lestrade replied firmly. "I insist."

Watson looked directly at him. "Thank you."

As Lestrade called a cab, Watson thought, 'Merry Christmas, Mary. Now neither of us are alone.'


	54. He Will Come

"Face it, Doctor," a voice in the shadows taunted. "No one is coming for you."

"Holmes will," Watson breathed shallowly. "He always does."

"Even Holmes won't find you are doomed to die here, alone!" The voice screamed triumphantly. "Holmes will only ever find your body!"

Watson raised his head slightly then sunk back, too weak to look for the source of the voice. "Holmes will come," he repeated stubbornly. "He always comes."

"Fool!" The voice shouted again. "Listen to me! He will not come! You will die here!"

"He will not." A voice came from behind the man, and a thump was heard.

Watson blinked upwards as a familiar face came into view. "Hallo Holmes," he said with a hazy smile. "I knew you would come in time." Finally, Watson lost his battle with unconsciousness, and slumped into Holmes's arms. Holding his friend, Holmes whispered, "I almost didn't."


	55. Cheese knife

"That is not what you use a cheese knife for," Mrs Hudson said faintly, transfixed by the sight in front of her.

"Did you say something, Mrs Hudson?" Dr Watson asked, coming up the stairs, Holmes behind him. She pointed wordlessly to the note hanging from their door, held there by a knife. Watson stepped closer. "Is that really - a cheese knife?" He asked, peering at it.

"Obviously, Watson," Holmes said. "It is also quite clearly from a cheese maker's apprentice, originally from York, and now residing in Mount Lane. As for the note, it is simply a pitiful attempt at intimidation. It is of little importance. Come, Watson, this may be just the clue we were looking for!"

Holmes ran back down the stairs, on the chase again. Watson followed him, limping slightly due to the wet weather.

Mrs Hudson pulled the knife out of the door and surveyed it critically, before going to the kitchen and placing it in her knife rack. "It is a good knife, after all, and I don't think its owner will be needing it back."


	56. Never Gets Easier

"Here."

I look up to see a flask thrust in front of me. I grab it and take a long drink, the whiskey burning my throat, leaving me coughing and spluttering. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I nod my thanks to Lestrade.

"Does it ever get easier?" I ask him.

He shakes his head slowly. "No, Hopkins, and you should be worried if it does. All life should be respected, even a criminal's. If you can shoot someone, and feel no regret for it, you are as bad as they are."

We both stand. There is work to do.


	57. Late Night Poetry

After my day of treating the sick,  
I come upstairs and light my wick,  
Open my book, wherever it falls,  
And write of adventure, of one who knows all.

Stories and stories, no lack of cases,  
A brilliant detective, the dangers he faces,  
I, his chronicler, there by his side,  
Watching for danger, where'er it may hide.

Together we stand, together we're strong,  
Fighting the felons, righting the wrongs,  
With all of our ventures, wherever we go,  
Troubles are sure to follow, you know.

I close my book, and head to my bed.  
No more writing tonight, but sleep instead.  
I fall into bed, and soon I'm asleep,  
To dream of adventure, and mysteries deep.


	58. Graveyard Pt 1

"Thank you," the young woman said. "Thank you for looking after him. He means the world to me. I don't know what I would have done if I had lost him."

She paused to collect herself. "You were more than a friend to him, you were like a brother. I should have told you that. He valued your friendship so highly. Thank you for returning him to me. All the times that the two of you left on one of your cases, you always brought him back safely, whatever the cost to yourself. Thank you."

Mary Watson left the graveyard.


	59. Graveyard Pt 2

"I've come to thank you," the man said, looking awkward. "You have done so much, I thought it only right to give you my thanks. You have looked after him for so many years. I know that the path we follow is not an easy one, but you never asked him not to accompany me on my various - misadventures. And for that-" The man broke off.

When he continued, it was in a much quieter tone. "Thank you for looking after him."

Sherlock Holmes walked away, leaving behind him a grave reading ' _Mary Watson, Beloved Wife. She will be missed._ '


	60. Kidnapped Pt 1

One April night, as the Watsons sat by the fire with their friend, Azaria Bankers, there was a knock on the door of the Watson residence. This was shortly followed by the entrance of Sherlock Holmes.

"This is a surprise, Holmes," Watson said, rising from his chair. "Please, have a seat."

"I'm afraid I am rather in a hurry, Watson. I have come to request the assistance of Miss Bankers," Holmes said abruptly.

Azaria startled. "I would be happy to help, Mr Holmes, but what would I be able to do?"

"It is a rather simple matter, Miss Bankers," Holmes said. "It so happens that you bear a striking resembalance to the Princess of Rygosia. All I want you to do is to dress yourself in one of the Princess's gowns, and attend the ball thrown in her honour, in place of the Princess."

"May I ask why?" Watson inquired.

"I am on the trail of kidnappers, Watson. I believe the Princess is the next target." At Watson's expression, Holmes hastily continued. "I assure you, there is no danger involved for Miss Bankers. The kidnappers will not want her injured."

Watson and Mary turned to look at their young friend, waiting for her response to Holmes's request.

Azaria stood up. "I will do as you ask, Mr Holmes," she said bravely.


	61. Kidnapped Pt 2

"Now, don't be anxious, Azaria," Watson said. He, Azaria and Holmes were in a hansom on the way to the hotel the Princess was staying at. "Holmes and I will look after you." He glanced at Holmes. "Well, as much as Holmes will do anything while he's on a case."

Azaria giggled softly, but soon looked away, her stomach churning with nerves. "Are we almost there?" she asked softly.

"This is it," Holmes said, as the hansom drew to a stop. He paid the driver as Azaria got out of the carriage, taking Watson's hand for support. The trio quickly made their way to the Princess of Rygosia's suite. Holmes knocked on the door. It opened, and a young woman peered out.

"This is the Princess's double for the night," Holmes said. "Her name is Azaria Bankers. May she come in?"

"I shall check with the Princess," the young woman said, looking suspicious.

As soon as the door closed, Azaria turned to Holmes. "Won't you be coming in with me?"

"I'm afraid, my dear lady, that we cannot," Holmes answered her. "Watson and I have preparations to make."

Before he could say anything else, the door opened. The young woman from before had returned, a smile replacing the previous suspicion. "Come in, miss. We must get you ready for the ball!"


	62. The Gift of Friendship

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, sending a warm light around the sitting room. The gentleman sitting at his desk nearby, however, paid no mind to it. He rose from his desk and took to pacing about the room, toying with a small object hidden in his hands. 

The door opening below distracted him from his pacing. Footsteps followed, slower than as usual. The doctor had had a long day, he deduced, and the cold weather had caused his old injury to flare up again. 

The door to the sitting room opened and Watson entered, his limp proving the detective right. Throwing a weary smile at Holmes, he collapsed onto his chair by the fireplace, warming his hands gratefully by the flames. "I'm very sorry to be so late, Holmes. The cold weather has caused an absolute flood of people at the surgery."

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "Accidents on the road are not uncommon this time of year."

Watson lifted up from his seat in surprise, then collapsed back down again, laughing softly. "I've no idea how you knew that, and frankly am too tired to ask."

Seeing Watson's eyes begin to slip closed, Holmes permitted himself a small smile, placing the object, Watson's present, on his desk and pulling a blanket over his sleeping friend. "Merry Christmas, my dear Boswell."


	63. Washed Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge 2013 Day 1: Washed up

Two figures were sprawled on the beach, the sun just rising over the grassy slopes ahead, and the faint marks on the sand behind them betraying their point of arrival.

"Holmes?" one of the men asked wearily, his head not raising from its position on the beach shores.

"Yes, Watson?" The other asked in return, his voice muffled by the sand.

The first man raised his head from the sand and turned a tired glare on his companion. "Next time you are asked to investigate murders on a steam ship, turn it down."

A soft chuckle came from the other man's general direction. "My dear Watson, I could not agree with you more."


	64. Bestseller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 2: Write a story where Watson's book sells more copies than Holmes' monograph.

"You aren't sulking, are you, Holmes?"

"Sulking? How could you accuse me of sulking, Watson? Futhermore, what cause could I possibly have to sulk?"

"I don't know, Holmes, but perhaps the fact that my book has sold more copies than your monograph has something to do with it?"

"That is entirely irrelevant to this conversation. I would not sulk over such a small matter. In fact, I do not sulk at all."

"Of course you don't, Holmes. I don't know why I would have thought so. Curling up on the armchair and pouting all evening is in no way indicative of sulking."

"Exactly."

"In that case, I suppose it would be no consolation at all to know I could not have done it without you? After all, you are the principal character of my book."

"No, I suppose you could not have done it without me. Well, Watson, let us go out to celebrate your new status as a best selling author!"


	65. I Just Wanted To Keep Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 3: Use: "I never wanted to lie. I just wanted to keep living."

"Where is the boy?" the gruff inspector asked in his natural French.

"Here, monsieur," came a little voice from below. He looked down and saw a young boy, no older than twelve, with dark curly hair, and a very scared expression. The boy was trembling, yet bravely held his ground as the inspector called him into his office.

"What was your part in this?" the inspector asked the boy.

"A man came to the hotel, telling me to take a message to the doctor, up at the cliff. He told me to give the message to the doctor, and not to say a word about him, or I would die!" The lad looked at the inspector with frightened eyes. "I never wanted to lie. I just wanted to keep living."

"What happened after that?" The inspector continued, not swayed by the boy's plea.

The boy looked down at the ground. "I did it. I brought the message to the doctor, and he came back down to the hotel. He and his friend said I should stay up on the cliff, to be a guide for the monsieur. I would have," here the boy raised his eyes to the inspector again, to convey his sincerity, "but I saw the man from before, the one who had given me the message! I ran. I did not want to see him again, nor for him to see me."

The boy looked at the inspector. "I just wanted to live, monsieur."


	66. When You Aren't An Irregular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 4: A crossover with anything you want.

Wiggins and the Irregulars didn't work for Mr Holmes all the time, and when they didn't, they still had to survive somehow. When Mr Holmes didn't have work for them to do, they went to the man that had helped many of them to survive in the big city. His name was Fagin. He had taught many of the Irregulars how to pickpocket, nick from market stalls, and make the most of their quick fingers.

Wiggins was a special favorite with Fagin. In fact, his skills had granted him with the nickname, the Artful Dodger.

Well, they needed to earn a living somehow, and this was as good a way as any, and more convenient than most.


	67. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 5: Trapped

Holmes's intimate knowledge of the streets of London had, for once, failed him. They were trapped in a dead end street, their escape halted by a high brick wall. The men that were chasing them slowed their pursuit, seeing that their was no escape for their quarry.

"We 'ave you now, mate," the leader said, hefting his stick and grinning in anticipation. "Yew can't get out o' here. No escape this time for Mr 'Olmes. And the doc too, o' course." He tipped his hat at Watson, still grinning widely.

Holmes and Watson glanced at each other. They knew their situation was dire. Facing a large group of men with sticks, with no chance of escape, was not a promising situation to find themselves in.

"Come on, mates! Let's take 'em out!" the leader shouted, spurring his men into action. The men moved forward, and the battle began in earnest.


	68. An Eventful Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 6: Write a story where Holmes and Watson run into Irene Adler, who at the moment is extremely drunk!

"My goodness, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed as he and Holmes walked home from a long and wearying case. "Is that Miss Adler further down the street?"

"I believe it is, my dear Watson, but do not forget, Miss Adler has been Mrs Norton for many years now," Holmes looked thoughtfully at the approaching figure. "It is certainly odd that she should be in London. I had believed her to have returned to America with her husband."

They had no more time to talk, for Irene was upon them, swaying with every step she took. "Hello there, Mr Holmes," she giggled. Both men took a step backwards at the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.

"Good evening, Mrs Norton," Holmes said, regaining his composure. "Are you quite well?"

"No, I'm not well, not at all." Her face fell. "I lost my dear Godfrey. He's gone, not here, and I want him here with me." She looked at Holmes, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can you find my Godfrey, Mr Holmes? You're a detective, can you find him for me?"

Before Holmes could reply, Irene wavered on her feet, and would have fallen, if not for Watson catching hold of her arm. She smiled at him, leaning on his arm and batting her eyelashes. "Who is your friend, Mr Holmes? He's very handsome?"

"Mrs Norton, this is Dr Watson," Holmes said brusquely.

"Is there something we could do to help?" Watson asked the woman hanging off his arm.

She seemed to regain some measure of sobriety, looking him straight in the eyes with a serious expression. "I'm afraid there is nothing you can do to help me, doctor. Even Mr Holmes cannot help me now."

"Perhaps we could escort you back to your hotel?" Watson offered, concerned at leaving the obviously drunk woman alone on the streets.

"Yes, let's do that!" Irene said happily, her sober moment forgotten. The men escorted Irene home, her holding Watson's arm the entire way. Upon arrival at the hotel, she finally released her grip in Watson's arm, turning to look at both men. "Goodnight Mr Holmes, Dr Watson! We should do this again!" She smiled at them waving goodbye, then swayed again, falling back towards Watson. As he moved forward to catch her, she leant and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, doctor!" Finally, she went inside, and both men made their way home. It was mutually agreed they would never discuss that night again.


	69. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 6: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

As Holmes and Watson sat by the fireplace, the lilting voices of carol singers drifted up from the street below.

"Carolers? On a night as cold as this?" Watson exclaimed, rising from his chair, wincing at the pain in his leg awakened by the bitter winter air.

"Not just any carolers, my dear fellow," Holmes said, not even bothering to open his eyes. "It is our young friends, the Irregulars, who are out tonight." He suddenly bolted out of his chair and strode to the door. Opening it, he shouted, 'Mrs Hudson! Tell our guests to come inside!"

Before long, a group of small boys had made their way inside, and were rapidly devouring the hot chocolate Mrs Hudson had kindly provided, to a chorus of approving noises.

"What about another carol?" Watson asked, as he noticed the boys finishing their mugs.

The boys exchanged glances, smiling and nodding, before bursting into song. "God rest ye merry gentleman, let nothing you dismay!" Smiling while continuing to sing, the boys made their way out the door, their song lingering behind them.


	70. A Little Matter To Consider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 8: Lestrade has a case that Holmes and Watson find it difficult to take seriously.

A tug on his pants leg brought Lestrade's attention to the big brown eyes peering up at him. "Daddy? I can't find my dolly."

"I'm working, Molly," Lestrade said. He turned from his daughter back to Holmes and Watson, to continue discussing a newly finished case.

"But Daddy, I need my dolly!" Molly tugged on Lestrade's pants leg again, looking beseechingly up at him.

Lestrade sighed. "A few moments, gentlemen?"

"Of course," Watson replied, sharing an amused glance with Holmes.

Lestrade crouched down to his daughter's level. "Now, Miss Molly, where did you last see your doll?"

"On your chair, Inspector Daddy," Molly said, eliciting hastily covered laughter from the other occupants of the room.

Steadfastly ignoring them, Lestrade said brightly, "How about we look over there?" He took Molly's hand and led her over to his chair. "No dolls here, Miss Molly." He looked around the room, eager to have this matter done with as quickly as possible, and his eyes caught on a small figure laying on his desk. He picked it up and showed it to Molly. "Is this your doll?"

She giggled, clapping her hands in joy. "Yes! Yes, that's my dolly!" She cuddled it tightly, then reached up to give Lestrade a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Daddy."


	71. Tinsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 9: Tinsel

A small strand of brightly coloured metal dropped into a test tube Holmes was working on, landing with a soft plop. Concentration broken from his experiment, Holmes looked up to see a thread of tinsel adorning the space over his workbench.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted, fishing the strand of tinsel out of the tube.

He heard the soft sounds of someone coming up the stairs, followed by his landlady's voice saying, "What is it, Mr Holmes?"

"What is tinsel doing here?" He scowled, turning to face her, and holding up the strand of tinsel as evidence.

"It's Christmastime, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said, looking disapprovingly at him. "Christmas decorations make the house look cheery."

"I don't care if it is cheery or otherwise, just keep it away from my experiments!" Holmes turned back to his experiment as Mrs Hudson left the room, muttering to herself about sour lodgers and lack of Christmas feeling. Just as he was about to add the final ingredient to his experiment, there came a soft plop, as another strand of tinsel dropped into his test tube.

"Mrs Hudson!"


	72. Faded Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 10: Holmes cannot remember who Watson is.

It was a sad ending to a wonderful life, Watson thought as he made his way up the path to the small cottage. Such a great mind, and a great man, being defeated by the unconquerable time.

Watson opened the door, calling out, "Holmes, where are you?"

Holmes came out of the sitting room, looking suspiciously at his guest. "Who are you?" he asked, drawing himself up to his full height.

Watson sighed to himself. Every time he came, he hoped it would be different, but he always hoped in vain. "I'm your doctor, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," he said with a weary smile, knowing that the name would mean nothing to Holmes.

Holmes relaxed his posture slightly, but made no sign of recognizing his old friend. The visit proceeded as all his other visits had, with no recognition on Holmes's part, and much awkward silence on Watson's. Finally, the doctor could stay no longer, and departed the cottage, mourning for the dear friend he had just left, who now knew him as no more than a stranger.


	73. Just A Cold Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 11: An old friend is injured/ill

"Good heavens, Lestrade, why aren't you in bed?" Watson asked, rising from his chair as a bleary eyed Lestrade shuffled into the room, coughing into his handkerchief.

"It's just a cold, doctor, I'm fine. Is Holmes here?" Lestrade swayed in his feet even as he tried to look around the room, prompting Watson to quickly grab his arm and lead him to a chair.

"I'm afraid Holmes has gone out, Inspector, and may not be back for many hours yet." Seeing Lestrade rising from his chair as if to leave, he hastily continued, "He may also be back any minute, so you might as well stay for a cup of tea."

Watson prepared a cup of tea and brought it back for the Inspector, only to find Lestrade asleep. Watson smiled. He knew the man was too sick to be working, althought he wouldn't have expected him to fall asleep quite this quickly. Drawing a blanket over the sleeping man, he then sat back down in his own chair with the cup of tea. This cold weather really did make one sleepy, Watson thought. Just...a bit...

Five hours later, Holmes came in to see two men asleep in the sitting room, and one half finished cup of tea on the side table.


	74. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 12: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe

"A most unusual case, Watson. Four children seem to have disappeared inside a wardrobe-"

"A wardrobe? How could they possibly have managed that?"

"I can only assume it was bigger on the inside. As I was saying, they seem to have disappeared inside a wardrobe, and the owner of the wardrobe wishes for me to find them, and retrieve them from the wardrobe."

"Well? Will you take the case?"

"I am afraid I am far too busy at the moment to take such a case. Besides, I'm sure they will be found before long. If they are not found within the next twenty four hours, then I may look into the matter."

"Very well, Holmes. If you are not going to be taking the case, perhaps you will have time to dine with me at Simpsons?"


	75. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 13: Flowers

Holmes snuck into the room, trying desperately to remain unheard. His mission was a dangerous one, with dire consequences if he was discovered. Despite his best efforts, his foot caught on a table, making the vase on it wobble noisily.

"Who's there?" Mrs Hudson called. She came into the room, and smiled at her unexpected guest. "Mr Holmes, what brings you here?" Mrs Hudson caught sight of the pot in his hands and frowned. "Mr Holmes, are those my flowers?"

In the face of Mrs Hudson's displeasure, Holmes could only tell her the truth. "Yes, Mrs Hudson. I'm afraid I needed them for an experiment, and it did not go so well." Placing the pot of dead flowers on the table that had gotten him caught in the first place, he hastily made his way out the door and away from Mrs Hudson's disapproving frown.


	76. Friends Will Argue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 14: An argument (can be serious or not) between Holmes and Watson.

"You are not coming with me on this case, Watson!" I said, glaring fiercely at him.

"If I am not coming than you are not going, Holmes." Watson returned my glare, although the effect was diminished by the way his hand was clenched on the back of the chair as he struggled to remain upright. "This is much too dangerous for you to go it alone!"

"Look at you!" I scoffed "You can barely stand upright, how could you help me with this?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply, then suddenly swayed on his feet, his face turning grey. I sprang to his side, helping him into the nearby chair. He collapsed into it, his breathing heavy. "Oh, Watson," I murmured. "Please, just stay here."

"Only if you will, my friend." He stared at me, waiting for me to concede, or not.

How could I not concede in the face of such selfless devotion? "It will wait, my dear Watson. It will wait."


	77. A Cold Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 15: Write a story where Holmes catches a cold.

"Achoo!"

"Holmes, are you alright?"

"Yes, Watson, I'm ferpectly fine."

"You are 'ferpectly fine', Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson, weren't you listening? Come, we have a case."

"No, Holmes."

"No? Watson, Lestrade came by not ten minutes ago with a new case for us. You were there. Surely you haven't forgotten already?"

"And surely you, master of deduction, have deduced you have a cold?"

"If I had a cold, I would still be out solving this case. As I do not, the point is moot. Come along, Watson, we're leaving."

"Holmes? Holmes! Blasted man, doesn't he know rest is the best cure for a cold?"


	78. Lady in Waitressing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 16: Why is Holmes working as a waiter at Simpson's restaurant?

One evening, not many months ago, I was dining at Simpson's on Holmes' instructions. Naturally, I was expecting him to meet me there, so imagine my surprise when the waiter who stopped at my table started speaking to me with my dear friend's voice!

"The young man serving the corner table has some kind of connection to the case of the disappearance of Lady Anne Roberts. Watch him, and see if someone passes him a hidden message, or some other means of secret communication." With that, Holmes left my table and continued taking other orders.

I watched the young man for the next few hours, but could see no secret communication of any sort. As his shift ended, I left my table and walked outside to observe the man further. I was soon joined by Holmes, and together he followed the young man back to his lodgings, in a surprisingly well to do part of town.

The man stopped at the doorway, and Holmes and I approached him. "Might we talk with you a moment, sir?" Holmes enquired.

The young man looked nervous. "Why talk to me?" he said in an obviously disguised voice. "I know nothing about anything."

"That, I'm afraid, is false," Holmes said. He turned to me. "Watson, meet the Lady Anne Roberts. Lady Anne ran away from home two weeks ago, and has been living with her uncle, disguised as a man."

Lady Anne stood up proudly. "Yes, I did. I wanted to see more of the world than my front lawn, so I decided to run away. I knew my uncle would let me stay. He knows what it is like to want to see the world."

"I'm afraid the adventure if over, Lady Anne. Your parents wish for you to come home, as they have been very concerned about you."

Lady Anne did agree to come with us, and we returned her safely to her parents. The next night, we celebrated the successful conclusion at Simpson's, and this time, Holmes was a customer, not a waiter!


	79. Overdose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 17: Holmes overdoses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having no personal experience with overdoses, I apologize for anything I may have gotten wrong.

Watson walked in the door after a long day tending to patients, wanting nothing more than to relax by the fire with a hot drink. Unfortunately, that was not to be, as his eye was immediately caught by the sight of Holmes lying sprawled on the rug, not breathing.

Frantically, Watson dropped to his knees beside the prone figure, feeling at his neck for a pulse. Finding one, he took a quick breath of relief, then set to work. It would take many hours and much work before Holmes was out of danger.

He worked through the night, with Holmes's breathing failing twice more, though fortunately, his heart never stopped.

Finally, Watson was rewarded with the sight of grey eyes flickering open. "Never," he said, glaring fiercely at the owner of those eyes. "Do that again."

Holmes, too exhausted to do anything else, nodded in agreement.


	80. A Perfect Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 18: Write a story where Sherlock shows off his genius by buying everyone the perfect gift based off their psychological profiles and personal histories.

"I cannot think of a proper Christmas present for Lestrade!" Watson said, sitting in his armchair, notepad in hand. "Holmes, do you have any ideas? I'm afraid I can think of absolutely nothing."

"It's really quite simple," Holmes said, turning fromm the windowsill, where he had been looking out onto the street, hoping for a case. "Lestrade is of French background, and grew up in the poorer parts of London. As a child, his maternal grandparents from France visited he and his siblings, bringing with them an array of French treats. They died when he was young, and since then he has not been able to acquire any of those French treats, so I am giving him a basket of genuine French croissants."

"Amazing!" Watson exclaimed. "Have you done such deductions for anyone else?"

"Of course! What better way is there to find the perfect Christmas present? For Jones, he is in desperate need of new pair of glasses, as his current ones are too weak for him. Gregson has just bought a dog for his wife, but neglected to buy a leash to go with it, therefore I am giving him one. Mrs Hudson needs a new bonnet, as her current one is quite hideous. I believe she only wears it because it was a gift from her late mother. Mycroft doesn't deserve a gift, he never has."

Silence raised for a few moments, while Watson recovers from such a deluge of information from his normally secretive friend. "Splendid!" he said finally. "Splendid indeed! Might I ask," he added, looking innocent. "What did you get me?"

Holmes was not fooled. "No, Watson, I shall not tell you. I may not know much of Christmas traditions, but I do know that presents are meant to be a surprise!" _In addition_ , Holmes mentally added, _I do not have a gift for you yet. Somehow, I never seem to find a gift that fits just right._


	81. Sherlock Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 19: Write a story where Watson suffers from memory loss - the last thing he remembers he was a soldier.

Watson's eyelashes fluttered open, to be greeted by the sight of three concerned faces staring down at him.

"Doctor, are you alright?" one of the faces asked. As his vision cleared, he could see that the face appeared to be that of a woman, a rather unusual sight on the battlefield.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the woman.

"I heard the crash and came upstairs," she answered, still looking worried. "Are you alright, Dr Watson?"

"He seems perfectly fine," another of the faces said abruptly. This one was a man, with sharp features and a rather beaklike nose. He moved away from the group, turning instead towards the window.

"He does seem fine," the third face agreed, sounding relieved. This one was also a man, with slightly shrewish features.

"Who are you all, and where are we?" Watson asked. Instantly, both faces in front of him were back to looking concerned.

"If this is a joke, John, it is in very poor taste," the second man said. "You must know who we are, you've known us for years."

"I assure you, sir, I've never seen you before in my life," Watson replied. "I don't know who you are, nor how you know my name, and I believe that if I had known you for years, as you say, I would recognize you now."

He sat up, and looked around the room. It was rather clutter, but still easily recognizable as a London room. "Where am I?" he asked. "I'm meant to be in Afghanistan, not London! What is happening?"

He turned to the two nearby. "Who are you?" he asked again.

"Bananas!" Holmes called out. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson turned to look at him in astonishment, missing seeing Watson drop back down to the floor. Hearing the thud, they turned back to him.

"What is going on?" Mrs Hudson asked, flustered. "First we find the doctor lying on the floor, with Mr Holmes not knowing how it happened, despite being in the next room, then the doctor can't remember us, now the doctor's out like a light again! This is madness!"

"Look!" Lestrade said, gesturing to Watson. "Dr Watson's waking up again."

Watson's eyes blinked open. He looked slowly around the room, then his eyes closed again, until he suddenly opened his eyes and shot to sitting position. "Holmes!" he exclaimed. "Did it work?"

"It did indeed, my dear Watson," Holmes said warmly. "I thank you for your cooperation."

Lestrade and Mrs Hudson watched this exchange in bemusement. "What is going on here?" Lestrade asked, confused and rather annoyed. "Was this all just a trick?"

"I needed to prove that it is possible to wipe a man's memory without touching him. With Watson's agreement, I hypnotized him into forgetting everything in his life from being shot onward, this proving that it is possible to make a man forget his history."

"And you couldn't have told us this?" Lestrade said angrily.

Watson looked at Holmes indignantly. "You didn't tell them? Really, Holmes. You should have told them that I was alright."

In the face of three angry faces, Holmes wisely took his leave. "Well, Watson, I must deliver this news to the duke. Good day!"


	82. Last Minute Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 20: Holmes has left his Christmas shopping to the last minute.

Holmes looked around the store in dismay. There were people everywhere; purchasing special items for that special person, looking at knickknacks and this and that, and generally doing their last minute shopping. Not what he had hoped for when he had set out. Unfortunately, he had left his Christmas shopping to the last minute, and now had no choice but to venture forth into the shops, to buy presents for everyone before the shops closed.

Holmes raced through the shops, quickly buying whatever seemed like it might vaguely suit the recipient, simply so he could leave the shops sooner. Finally, his shopping was finished, and he was standing outside on the street with both arms full of presents. "Next time," he said wearily. "I'm buying presents in November."


	83. Pub Brawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 21: Pub brawl.

Every political campaign should start off with a pub brawl, and the 1885 election was one of them. An overly loud comment had been picked up on, challenged by the other side, and resulted in a fighting, brawling, writhing mass of people.

Holmes happened to have been caught in the pub that particular night, looking for information, and was caught in the mass. His considerable skill at boxing served him well, and he made it out of the crowd in one piece.

"And Watson wonders why I pay no attention to politics," he muttered to himself.


	84. Quill Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 22: A beloved quill pen.

A special quill pen, under a Christmas tree,  
Given as a gift, here at 221B.

From detective to doctor, chosen with care,  
Presented with modesty, no special flair.

Received with delight, and soon put to the test  
The stories it pens, will be best of the best.


	85. A Choc-lot of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 23: Chocolate

"Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said sternly. "What did I tell you about stealing chocolate from my pantry? I only have a limited supply, you know, it is very expensive."

"Mrs Hudson, it certainly could not have been me who had been stealing your chocolate!" Holmes said, standing tall. "I would never do such a thing! I would suggest asking Watson, he's just such the rascal who would steal chocolate."

"Shame on you, Mr Holmes, for trying to pass this off on the doctor," Mrs Hudson said, waggling her finger at him. "Those aren't tobacco stains on your lips! Besides, I know the doctor is too honest to ever be able to steal from my pantry."

Watson, having just this moment come into the room, hastily tucked something into his inner coat pocket before speaking. "Mrs Hudson! Is something the matter?"

"Oh, Doctor Watson!" Mrs Hudson turned around to face him. "Mr Holmes here has been accusing you of stealing chocolate from my pantry when I know perfectly well he is the one doing it."

"Really, Holmes? How could you accuse me like that?" The expression of hurt on Watson's face was betrayed by the mischievious sparkle in his eyes. "You must know I would never steal chocolate out of Mrs Hudson's pantry, and even if I tried, I'd never manage to get away with it. I'm afraid I simply have no talent for deception. You've said so yourself."

Mrs Hudson nodded her approval at him, then turned back to Holmes, thus missing the impish grin that Watson could hold back no longer. Faced by his grinning friend, and the righteously indignant Mrs Hudson, Holmes conceded defeat.


	86. Christmas Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 24: Watson and Mary remember Christmas when they were children.

"It's so beautiful," Mary said, clasping her hands together as she looked around the newly decorated sitting room.

Watson came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. "You've done a wonderful job."

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said, leaning back into his embrace. "I could never have reached those high corners." They rested for a moment in silence, then Mary commented, "I never had anything like this growing up." Watson looked curiously at her, but let her continue. "As you know, my mother died when I was young, and my father sent me to boarding school in England. It was a good school, but they didn't believe in having decorations, or even a Christmas tree. We had a nativity scene instead, and on Christmas Eve, the teachers would tell us the story of the first Christmas. It was nice, but nothing like this."

"My Christmases were very different," Watson said, after a short pause. "My father's family is Scottish, so we always went to Scotland for Christmas and celebrated with them. It was a noisy time, with lots of uncles, aunts and cousins, and a big Christmas feast."

There was a moment of silence, then Mary let out a soft laugh.

"What is it?" Watson asked, turning her to look at him.

Mary smiled at him. "I was just wondering what kind of Christmas Mr Holmes would have had as a child."

Watson thought about that for a moment, then joined her in laughter.


	87. The Hazards of Chimney Climbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 25: Holmes tries to debunk the Santa theory by climbing down the chimney

"My goodness, Holmes! What are you doing up there?"

"I am proving, my dear Watson, that Santa Claus does not exist."

"And how does climbing the chimney prove that, may I ask?"

"Obviously, Watson, if I cannot climb down the chimney, how could a much larger man, carrying a sack of presents, climb down?"

"A sound theory, Holmes, with one exception."

"And what would that be?"

"If you cannot climb down the chimney, how will you get out of it?"

"I'll simply climb back up, of course!"

"Of course. Please do forgive me for asking."

...

"Watson."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I believe I may be..."

"May be what, Holmes?"

"I may be...stuck."


	88. Moments Under The Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 26: Holmes tries to start taking down the Christmas decorations, to Watson's horror.

As the door opened, Holmes froze in place, Christmas baubles still in hand.

"What do you think you are doing?" Watson asked cautiously, coming fully into the room and taking off his coat.

"Taking down the Christmas decorations, of course!" Holmes said, recovering his imperious manner. "Christmas is over, therefore the Christmas decorations no longer need to be cluttering up our living space." He placed the bauble still in his hand carefully back in its box.

"Holmes, no!" Watson said, looking horrified.

"Whyever not?" Holmes asked indignantly.

"It's a long standing tradition, to leave the Christmas decorations up until twelve days after Christmas," Watson explained.

Holmes snorted. "That's ridiculous. Why would you leave the decorations up after the celebration is over?"

"It's tradition, Holmes," Watson said tiredly, running his hand through his hair. "Who knows when it started?"

Seeing Watson's weariness, Holmes decided not to press the point, and instead changed targets.

"At the very least, I must insist we take down the mistletoe," he said, walking over and pointing up at it from underneath, prepared to take it down the moment Watson gave his approval; or the moment his back was turned, whichever was easier.

At that very moment, Mrs Hudson walked in to check on her tenants. "What are you two arguing about?" she asked, hands on hips. Catching sight of Holmes pointing upward, she followed his finger to the top of the doorway, exclaiming,"Oh look, there's mistletoe!" Quickly, she kissed Holmes on the cheek, then went back downstairs, leaving him standing in shock.


	89. The Bonds of Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Challenge Day 27: Holmes is bored and gets himself into trouble.

Cick!

"Mr Holmes, what do you think you are doing?" Lestrade looked down at the handcuffs now adorning his wrists, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes, and sighed. It was going to be one of those days. "Why did you handcuff me?" he asked, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose before he realized the handcuffs would make it supremely awkward.

"It is always a good idea for a policeman to be able to get out of his own handcuffs," Holmes looked condescendingly at him. "If you were captured, I'm sure you would appreciate the knowledge."

"And what is the real reason?" Lestrade asked. He had known Holmes for too long to accept such an explanation.

Holmes froze for a moment, then relented. "I have no cases, Lestrade, and my usual solace," here he glanced to his desk, "is unavailable."

"Why not go bother Watson, then?" Lestrade asked, curious as to the doctor's whereabouts, and trying to distract Holmes.

"Watson is out visiting patients," Holmes told him. He quickly strode over to the window and looked up and down the street, seemingly in hope of a new client. Seeing as he looked away moments later, Lestrade deduced that there were no clients on the street. Somehow, he didn't think Holmes would appreciate it if he shared that deduction.

A few moments later, and another click echoed through the room. Lestrade proudly held up the handcuffs, enjoying Holmes's rare surprise. "Next time you are bored, Mr Holmes," he said, relishing every word. "Try something a little harder."


	90. Lonely Nights

Mary sat on the side of the bed, brushing her long blonde hair in soft strokes, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotically soothing. John was out tonight, assisting Sherlock on a case, the way he had for their entire acquaintance. She could never begrudge him for it, seeing as without it they never could have met, and she knew that Sherlock was as dear to him as she was herself. For all that, there were sometimes nights like tonight, where she sat alone in their bedroom, readying herself for sleep, and knowing that there was some distant chance that she would wake a widow. 

The clatter of boots and hush of quiet but jubilant voices brought relief to her heart, and a smile to her face. One night she may wake to find that her dear John had perished while she slept, and she was alone once again, but tonight? Tonight her boys were safe.


	91. Trust on a Train

"Holmes, don't you think you're being unreasonable?"

Holmes finished shutting the blinds, checking to make sure no light could be seen through them, before turning to look at Watson. "Moriarty is a very dangerous man, my dear Watson. I will not underestimate him."

"But a train?" Watson questioned, unconsciously pressing himself back from the windows even as he spoke. "Do you really think he could shoot at us through the train windows, while the train is moving?" 

Holmes settled back in his seat, confident that their carriage was now secure. "The train will not always be moving, Watson, and for a man with Moriarty's connections, it would not be difficult to arrange for an accident." 

Watson conceded the argument, not as sure as Holmes about Moriarty's capabilities, but willing to trust his friend, wherever that may take him.


	92. Puny Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 221B! Been a while since I've written one of those. This one was inspired by a line from the Boscombe Valley Mystery: ' _The puny plot of the story was so thin, however to when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping,...that I at last flung it across the room_ '.

"Good heavens, Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, entering the room and catching sight of the pile of of discarded books scattered haphazardly as if thrown against the wall - which, in fact, they had. "What offence have these books committed, to be treated such? 

"Merely to be dangerously dull, my dear friend," Watson replied. "Your cases are far more interesting. For instance," he continued, smiling slightly at Holmes' peculiar costume, "whatever you have been doing. You've been at the docks, I can see, but what for?" 

"I'll make a detective of you yet, doctor!" Holmes laughed. "Tell me, what did you notice for you to know it was the docks? The mud on my boots, unique to the waterfront? The slight stain on my sleeve, from brushing against one of the boats?" 

"Nothing so unusual, I'm afraid," Watson said, looking slightly sheepish. "The smell of fish hanging about you rather gave it away." 

Holmes sniffed hesitantly at his clothes. "Yes, I can tell. I suppose I had become rather used to it." He disappeared into his bedroom, and came out moments later, clothes changed and wearing a dressing gown. "Now, you had asked me what I was doing at the docks. Well, -" 

The hours whiled past and the sky grew dim, as Holmes recounted his day's adventures to the eager ears of his biographer.


	93. Thin Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of a Sherlock Holmes writing challenge, taking place all through December! Today's prompt, from I'm Nova over on fanfiction.net; The ice was too thin to bear Holmes' weight.

The ice was too thin to bear Holmes' weight. It cracked, snapping beneath him and sending the detective plunging into the dark depths of the lake.

"Holmes!" Watson cried. He scrambled out onto the ice, heedless of the danger. His feet slipping beneath him, he ran towards the dark gash marring the pristine surface; as he came closer, he could already see ice reforming around the edges, crystals as pale and fragile as glass gathering around the edges of the hole. They were encroaching the hole on all sides - except where Holmes' gloved hands were clinging onto the icy edge.

Watson grabbed Holmes's hands, already soaked through and freezing from their encounter with the frigid water, and pulled. The ice creaked beneath him. Slowly, Watson pulled Holmes out of the lake, continuing until they were both sitting, shivering, by the edge of the hole.

Watson got to his feet, holding a hand out for Holmes to take. "Come, my friend. We need to get you home." Holmes, too cold and exhausted to argue, acquisced, and they headed off towards Baker Street and a cosy fireplace, leaving the lake behind them.

In the freezing cold of this December night, it would take only minutes before the lake had frozen over again, leaving no sign of the tragedy that had almost occurred.


	94. Penguins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Winter Winks 221: If I was a penguin...

"If I was a penguin," Watson mused, "this cold weather would be far more tolerable. As is, I would much prefer to be somewhere more tropical for the winter season."

Holmes glanced up from where he was studying one of his record books. "I would have thought you'd had more than enough of the tropics in India."

"For once, Holmes, your deduction has fallen through." Watson smiled teasingly at his friend. "If anything, India has made me miss the warm weather. I do enjoy the snow, but this dreary rain and hail is tiring!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish it was longer, but I'm tired.


	95. Hot Chocolate for a Cold Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from cjnwriter: Chocolate covered _(fill in the blank)_

Wayne triumphantly held up a brown, soggy piece of gingerbread. 'Look! It's chocolate covered!" He took a bite, and his eyes widened. "It tastes even better!"

The other Irregulars clustered around the chocolate pot, dipping their biscuits and gingerbread in and exclaiming at the chocolaty flavour.

"It's delicious!"

"I've never had chocolate before. It tastes so good!"

"Everything tastes better with chocolate, dummy!"

"Hey! I'm not a dummy!"

Mrs Hudson broke up the brewing argument, coming in between and taking the chocolate pot from the middle of the mass of Irregulars. "Children! Chocolate is for drinking, not dunking biscuits in. You'll get crumbs through the chocolate!"

Suitably chastened, the Irregulars quietened down, looking penitently down at the floor. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson," they chorused.

She nodded firmly. "Good. Now sit down quietly and finish your hot chocolate. And no more chocolate covered biscuits!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate pots were an actual thing at the time, and blocks of chocolate were still a pretty new thing, having been around for only fifty or so years.


	96. Taking One for the Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Sparky Dorian: Taking one for the team. Uh, I'm not in a happy mood, so you might not like this one.

"No!" Watson pushed Holmes out of the path of the knife, both stumbling and falling to the cobbled pavement with the force of the push. Their attacker, still just a youth and only wanting their money, ran, fearful of the consequences of his rash action.

Holmes pushed himself to his feet. "Come, Watson, that wasn't necessary. I am an expert in baritsu, remember; I would have disarmed him before he managed to strike again." He held out a hand for Watson.

"I suppose I - was taking one- for the team, then." Watson stumbled over his words, interrupted by harsh gasps for air. He reached for Holmes' hand, then cried out in pain.

Holmes immediately crouched to the street behind him, heedless of the street water seeping into his pants. "Watson! Watson, are you injured?"

Watson's arm, which had been clenched around his stomach, loosened, the dark red of blood showing dully in the light from the street lamps. "I'm afraid so, Holmes."

Holmes swore. "I will see that menace dead for this!"

Watson gathered his strength and barked, "Holmes!"

Holmes' attention swung back to him.

"Later. Right now, I - need you to - go for help." Holmes began to protest, but Watson interrupted. "Now. I need help - now."

"Very well." He took Watson's hand and gripped it tightly. "But you stay awake, Watson. You must still be here when I return."

Watson smiled slightly. "I will be here." A look passed between them, conveying everything they did not say.

Holmes squeezed Watson's hand a final time, then stood. Without a backwards glance, he left, hoping his friend would last until his return.


	97. Plenty of Children, Nonetheless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from I'm Nova: Mrs. Hudson might have never physically given birth, but she has plenty of children.

Mrs Hudson has never given birth, never raised a child up from a baby, but she has plenty of children.

There's Sherlock, her oldest. He often makes a mess, comes and goes at all hours of the night, and has a terrible habit of staining her chin. Yet somehow, when she is having a day when everything seems to go wrong, without fail he will play her favourite song on his violin, and the world seems a little bit brighter.

John is her darling, the one who always brings her flowers on her birthday, the one to provide her with some comfort against the aches and pains of growing old. Some days, though, when the memories of Mary grew too heavy, she is the one to provide comfort to him, sitting down to remember the beautiful young woman they both loved so much.

Mary, Mary was her sweet daughter. From the moment she'd heard that Mary had grown up without a mother, she knew that she would look after this girl like she was her own. Mary was the one who came to her for advice about setting up her own household, to show her some pretty thing she had found at the markets, or to sit and chat for a while. Mary's funeral, seeing the wasted form of the bright and strong young woman she knew, had been nearly as painful as her dear Robert's death, many years before.

Of course, the Irregulars are her children too: recruited by Sherlock to help with cases, but as children, they need more than that. They need someone to bring hot chocolate to warm them against the cold, to tuck their mittens on tightly so they don't get lost, and to tell them they are wonderful, brave children, but could they please be careful tonight?

No, Mrs Hudson has never had a baby of her own, never felt that life growing within her. That is one gift she and her Robert never shared. Nevertheless, she has plenty of children, and though they may not call her mother, she loves them as her own.


	98. Seasons Greetings from Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from I'm Nova: Irene Adler sends season's greetings to Baker Street 221B. Sorry it took so long, but it refused to come out as anything but a poem.

My dear Holmes, season's greetings!

And I hope the doctor is well too.

I know at our first meeting,

He always stayed by you.

 

We are very happy here,

Living in Paris,

This is my favourite time of year,

With the pretty Christmas trees.

 

I wish you well this year to come,

And to you both good fortune.

Sending this, with my love,

Signed, Irene Norton


	99. White Stallion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Winter Winks 221: a white stallion.

It walked slowly towards them, its white coat gleaming against the gloomy night. Power and majesty was in its every step as it made its way closer and closer.

Holmes and Watson stood still, feeling the quiet that had descended on the scene. Even the birds has stopped fluttering, the entire forest holding its breath as it waited for something to happen.

The horse stopped, just close enough to touch. This close, they could see the blood encrusted around its shining hooves.

"I do believe we have found our murderer," Holmes murmured, not willing to disturb the quiet of the scene.

Watson reached a hand out towards the horse, gently stroking down its soft nose, then across its back and down the legs. At this last motion, the horse flinched, prancing a few paces to one side and looking at them warily. "And you were right, Lord Warburton was trying to maim it. All to ward off his wife's imaginary lover." He coaxed the horse closer again by way of an apple brought from his pocket. "What shall we do, Holmes?"

"Lord Warburton is dead, and therefore cannot possibly want the horse. Lady Warburton is terrified of them. It seems justice would let us leave the horse here." Holmes allowed a very slight smile. "I think it will be well taken care of."

Watson patted the horse on the back, then stepped away. The horse huffed, shook its mane, then turned, disappearing back into the early morning gloom of the forest.


	100. Mary's Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from I'm Nova: Mary's biggest treasure.

Mary Watson has many treasures in her life.

Some of them are small treasures, like the way John smiles when he's had a good day at his practice, or the flowers in her windowsill that are blooming so prettily. When a cake comes out of the oven just right, and she knows that it will taste delicious.

Some of them are bigger than that, more important. Like the earrings passed down from her deceased mother. Like that feeling when Sherlock and John come home from a case, safe and sound. Like visiting with Mrs Hudson and trying a new recipe together. Like that Christmas party at Scotland Yard, when all the officers took turns to come up and earnestly tell her how much they appreciated her husband's presence on cases.

More than anything else, she treasures those lazy evenings at home, when she and John, and sometimes Sherlock if they can convince him, stay in and talk, sharing stories and lives by the light of the fire. Moments like those carry her through the darker days, the ones where she wonders if sending her husband off with Sherlock might be the last time she ever sees him, if she would always feel this useless just sitting at home and waiting.

Now, though, she might have something new to treasure. She pats her stomach, smiling softly, imagining the bump that will soon be there. This may turn out to be her biggest treasure of all.


	101. A Decorating Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from I'm Nova: The Irregulars receive an unexpected treat. This one was being very stubborn, so the quality may have suffered as a result.

The Irregulars clustered at the front door of 221 Baker Street, eagerly awaiting Holmes' arrival. He had said today would be a special day, and they all anticipated a brand new case, with plenty for them to investigate.

Mrs Hudson opened the door. "Come on in, boys. Mr Holmes is upstairs. The doctor's not up yet, so do try to stay quiet."

As the Irregulars trooped through the upstairs door, Holmes was sitting before the fire, waiting for them. "Now, Irregulars," he said, looking at them seriously. "There is something very important I need you for today."

"Is it a new case, Mr 'Olmes?" Little Sam asked, and was hastily shushed by the others.

"No, not this time. This time...we are decorating." He gestured grandly to the boxes stacked up behind him, bright colours and bristly boughs just visible peeking through the top.

The boys' mouths opened in astonishment. "It's like a shop in here!" Wayne exclaimed.

Big Sam nodded enthusiastically. "One of the real pretty ones!"

Holmes let them have a moment to admire the decorations, then brought their attention back to him. "This is a task to be undertaken with the greatest secrecy and silence. No shouting, and certainly no one is to wake Dr Watson." He gazed sternly over all of them, and they nodded their assent. They all like the doctor, and if Holmes said not to wake him, they'd well make sure they didn't.

The decorating commenced. Ivy was hung from windows and mantels, and decorated with small ornaments and gingerbread men. Popcorn and cranberry strings were strung wherever the children could reach. Even Holmes' experiments were decorated, with a tiny ribbon tied neatly on each test tube!

Finally, all strings were strung, ivy was hung, and the whole room had a proper Christmas feel. The decorators, pleased with their work, were eating Mrs Hudson's generously provided refreshments, when footsteps began coming down the stairs. "Holmes, why did you let me sleep so late? The Irregulars were coming-" Dr Watson came into the room, and stopped short. He looked around the room, taking in all the decorations, and everything that had been done. Finally, his gaze rested on the Irregulars, biscuits still in hand. "Did you do all this?"

"Mr 'Olmes told us to," Little Sam said in his piping voice. "Do you like it?"

Watson smiled, taking one more admiring glance around the room. "I do like it, very much."


	102. Puppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Sparky Dorian: Puppies. Now I'm all up to date!

The box was sitting by the side of the street, battered and drooping. The muffled whimpers coming from inside could barely be heard over the clatter of traffic and chatter of passers by. No one stopped to hear, no one cared. The box remained by the side of the street, growing more damp and battered by every passing hour.

A nose poked its way out of the box. It was a very small nose, black and wet. It had come out through a small hole in the side, just big enough for it to fit. It sniffed slowly, then retreated back inside.

Then it came out again. This time, the small black nose was followed by a small black face, with big eyes and a mouth with sharp little teeth. The little teeth bit into the side of the hole, gradually widening it. They bit further and further, widening the hole more and more, until the little black nose and the little black face was followed by a little black body, fluffy all over with a little tail curled up at the end.

With its whole body out of the box, the little puppy - for it was a puppy - started exploring the street. It dodged the people, running around their feet and under their skirts, following every interesting smell it could find. It found one particular smell, following it further and further, with more and more attention, until - bump - the puppy ran right into a pair of shoes.

"What's this?" a voice came from above. A large pair of hands came down around the puppy, lifting it high up into the air. The puppy yipped. This was exciting! He should have left the box a long time ago!

"It's a puppy, Watson, Schipperke most likely. Now, will you put it down? Mrs Hudson has supper waiting for us." That wasn't the same voice. It was a different one, not as friendly. The puppy growled at it.

"It's only a little puppy, Holmes. It will be cold out tonight. Puppies should not be out on the street." That was the same voice, the nice one. The puppy yipped at it again. It liked that voice. "It seems too dirty to belong to anyone. I'll just take it home with us tonight, and tomorrow I can make inquiries."

"Do hurry, Watson. Mrs Hudson will not be pleased if we miss supper again after last week."

The puppy found itself being wrapped in something soft and woollen. It sniffed curiously at the material, but shied away quickly. It smelt odd, something sharp that made its nose itch. Still, it was warm. The puppy cuddled closer, burrowing into the material and starting to drift off to sleep. It had been a long day for the little puppy. Adventures were nice. Maybe tomorrow it could have another one.


	103. Missing Links

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Sparky Dorian: Missing links

"John? Have you seen my necklace?" Mary called through the house. She waited for a reply, then remembered John was out, staying overnight for a dangerously ill little girl. She sighed. It was always quieter without John here.

She looked for the necklace again, searching through the parlour and the bedrooms, but didn't find it. Perhaps it wasn't really that important, but it was her favourite necklace. She wore it everywhere, and now, not feeling its presence around her neck was unsettling.

Maybe Mr Holmes could help her? It was only a slight thing, but he'd investigated for less. The least she could do, she decided, was ask him. If he was out, or busy on a case, then she would have to accept the necklace was lost.

She made her way to Baker Street, stopping in front of the door just as she had years before. She knocked.

Mrs Hudson opened it, a smile breaking out on her face. "Mary! I didn't expect you today."

Mary accepted the older woman's embrace, following her inside. "I've come to see Mr Holmes, Mrs Hudson. I was hoping to request his help."

"Well, up you go up the stairs, then. He's in right now, just sitting up there with his pipe and his books." She leaned in and said confidentially, "I think he could use the distraction."

Mary went up the stairs as ushered, and entered 221B. Mr Holmes was waiting for her. "Mary."

"Mr Holmes." She stood awkwardly in the doorway. Suddenly this did not seem such a good idea.

"You have a case for me," he said. It wasn't a question. "You've come from home to ask me. Watson isn't home, or you would have asked him instead. Your necklace is missing."

She sat, stunned. Even after all the stories she'd heard from John, and the handful of times she'd seen it herself, Mr Holmes' deductions still left her confused and somewhat awed. "Yes, I lost it this morning, and have no idea where it may be."

"I would try the kitchen counter."

She didn't know what to say.

"You take it off while in the kitchen, possibly due to some notion of propriety, and this time forgot to put it back on again upon leaving," he told her with a smile. "It is likely still there waiting for you."

She thanked him absently, feeling almost disconnected. How had he known that? Almost without thinking, she found herself back at her home. She went inside, and on the kitchen table, just as he had said, lay her necklace.


	104. Disguises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Wordwielder: Disguises

Watson looked up from his paper to find a bulky stablehand in his living room. "I do say, Holmes, that's the third disguise today! Are you going to use one of these eventually?"

"Of course, Watson!" Holmes said, fiddling with his blond moustache. "All these disguises will eventually be useful, but first I must experiment, to try which ones are best."

"I always believed you just decided them on the spot," Watson said, growing intrigued despite himself.

Holmes looked at him with an affectionate twinkle in his eye. "I didn't know you so well then, dear Watson. I thought it best to preserve some mystery of my profession."

Watson sat back in his chair, a warm feeling rising in his breast. "Carry on then, Holmes. Let's see those disguises."


	105. Contest of Strength

Today was the day Scotland Yard had been looking forward to all year. This was the day they all got to show off what they could do, holding their annual Contest of Strength. The stage had already been set up in the conference room, the biggest room and the only one able to fit all their police force. For the first time, Holmes and Watson had also come, and Watson had been asked to be one of the judges.

The contestants lined up at the edge of the stage, the judges took their seats, and the contest began. Each contestant showed off their strength, lifting weights and having rope pulls with each other. One by one, they were knocked out, overtaken by a superior opponent, until there were only two left.

Their final challenge was this: to bend a steel bar in half. Gregson went first. He took the bar in both hands, exerting all the pressure he could in his attempt to bend it. Panting, exhausted, he finally released, and looked down at it. The bar was as smooth and straight as ever.

The other contestant stepped forward, a tall young constable named Baker. He picked up the steel bar and began to push. For a moment, it seemed like nothing was happening. Then, millimetre by millimetre, the bar bent, until there was a visible bend in the steel. Baker let go, letting it clatter to the floor while he wiped the sweat from his face.

Applause rang through the room. Baker took a bow, grinning shyly. Watson joined him on the stage, shaking his hand and giving him the medal awarded to the year's winner.

Later that evening, when the room had cleared out for a celebratory drink and Holmes was the only one left, did he smile softly to himself, and bend the bar back into shape.


	106. Timber!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Winter Winks 221: Timber!

It was a nasty scuffle. The Irregulars had seen a man coming out of Mrs Hudson's back window, and Wiggins had sent Little Sam upstairs for Mr Holmes before the rest of the group had mobbed the man.

The man, surprised at first, quickly realised he was being attacked and started fighting back. Being much bigger and stronger, he got a few good hits in, but the Irregulars were fast, and they knew how to work together. The fight was a stalemate, with neither side able to fully overcome the other, when Holmes' fist came out of nowhere, landing directly on the man's nose.

The man's eyes widened, then unfocused. He swayed backwards, then forwards again. Finally, he toppled over, his head hitting the ground with a hard smack.

The watching Irregulars cheered. "Timber!"

Holmes leaned down, rifling through the man's pockets. "As you thought, Wiggins. Filled with Mrs Hudson's good silver." He straightened up. "Well done, Irregulars. Wayne, run and find an officer to come take this rubbish" he prodded at the man with his boot, "away. The rest of you, clear out his pockets and bring it all inside. We would not want to distress Mrs Hudson."


	107. Pocket Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Spockologist: Stolen pocket watch.

"Holmes," Watson asked without looking, rifling through papers on the desk, "have you seen my pocket watch?"

Holmes was curled up in the armchair like a cat, eyes closed, soaking in the weak winter sunlight. A case had finished just two days ago, and all Holmes' energy had gone with it. "No, Watson. You usually put it in the desk drawer."

"I've already looked, and haven't found it." Still, Watson checked the drawer again, lifting up the medical paraphernalia and souvenirs from cases that had somehow made their way in there. The watch did not show.

Watson slumped down into his chair. "That pocket watch was my brother's. It's all I have left of him."

Holmes' eyes opened, and he looked over at Watson with concern. "Perhaps you should ask Mrs Hudson."

Watson brightened. "Of course! She may have moved it to clean, or something of the like. I'll ask her at once."

As Watson left the room, headed downstairs to talk to Mrs Hudson, Holmes closed his eyes and relaxed into the armchair again. Hopefully Mrs Hudson had had it cleaned by now and wouldn't mind giving it a little early.


	108. Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Sparky Dorian: Chapel.

Light shone through the stained glass window, sending blue and green beams dancing through the small chapel, seen by no one but heaven above. The wooden pews were old but sturdy, worn smooth with generations of kneeling parishioners.

The door was pushed open, and Mary entered, footsteps soft. She knelt in a pew near the entrance, and clasped her hands together. "Our Father," she began, "who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done..."

Her voice shook, and tears sprung to her eyes. "Thy will be done-"

A sob broke out. "Father, I'm afraid. I know I'm not well, and I've been getting worse every day. What if that's Your will? What if I die? I don't want to die! I want to live, grow old with John, raise our child, be happy! I don't want to die so soon! How can that be Your will?"

Mary lowered her head to the pew and wept.

Finally, what seemed like a long time later, she rose her head again, wiping back the tears. "I will have faith," she whispered to herself. She began her prayer again. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Amen."

She stood up, brushed down her skirts, and walked back to the door. Just as she reached it, she stopped, looking back into the small chapel once again. "Goodbye."

The door closed behind her.


	109. Rose-Coloured Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Riandra: rose-coloured glasses.

His brother has been gone for nearly three years now, and Mycroft knows things are going well. It may have started off a bit dicey, with Moran close on Sherlock's trail, but that trail has gone cold, and Moran is off the scent. According to some trusted contacts, he may even be on his way back to England, where Mycroft himself will be waiting for him.

With Moran caught, and Moriarty's network tracked down and disbanded, Sherlock could even return. Of course, his service to his country could not be shared openly, not yet, but he could see the Watsons again, and return to those little puzzles he so enjoyed. Not that Mycroft can understand why - triflingly easy, most of them, and requiring so much _legwork_ \- but he will not begrudge his brother's happiness after all he has done.

His brother's friends would also be pleased to see him alive again. The deception was regrettable, but also necessary, for Sherlock's wellbeing and their own. If Moran thought them to have any idea where Sherlock could be, he would have stooped to any level to get that information. Instead, Mrs Hudson has been able to live comfortably in her home without needing new lodgers, and the Watsons have moved on with their lives. Their son is two now, he believes, and looked to be growing up quite well last time he visited, though that was some months ago.

Once Sherlock returns, he'll visit again. Maybe at Christmastime. He's never been much for celebrating it himself, but surely the Watsons will, and if anyone can convince his brother to celebrate with them, it will be John and Mary. Sherlock could even finally meet his namesake.

A quiet knock on the door. "Sir, a message for you."

He opens the message, reads its contents. The rose-coloured glasses fall off.

' _Mary Watson's funeral today. Son expected to follow._ '


	110. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Aleine Skyfire: Icarus.

Sebastian Moran was not a fanciful man. He didn't hold with curses or legends, fairytales held no sway over him. Yet still, there was one myth he had heard in his childhood and never forgotten.

Icarus, the man who flew towards the sun and fell when the wax melted off his wings.

That myth had stuck with him, a reminder that a man was capable of anything, as long as he had the right materials to get there. Icarus hadn't, falling down when his wings had failed him, but at least he'd tried. Moran also tried, joining the army, rising in the ranks, making his name known. Each time, he had the right materials, he had the ambition, and he succeeded. When he met Moriarty, he became the professor's right hand man, taking on each job the man gave him and succeeding again and again.

Then came Reichenbach. The Professor went over the waterfall, and Moran realised, he was not Icarus: Moriarty had been Icarus all along, reaching for something bigger and greater, and falling when his wings were destroyed.


	111. Crack

_Crack!_

I looked up from my notebook, alarmed by the sound, to find Holmes staring at his chemistry set with dismay. One of his beakers had cracked, the liquid inside slowly spilling out onto the wooden table.

"Holmes," I asked, "what was in that beaker?"

"A solution I have been working on for weeks," he told me, still staring at the dripping beaker. "I was very close this time, but now my work is ruined. I'll have to start again."

"That's not all that's ruined!" The mess from the beaker had grown bigger and bigger, enough that the table was no longer enough to contain it. "Mrs Hudson will never forgive you if that stains her carpets!"

Hastily, I looked around for something to clean up the liquid with. Holmes had gone one step further, immediately grabbing a nearby teacup and putting it under the table to catch the spill.

"I'm not sure spoiling her china is much better, Holmes!"

Mrs Hudson, seemingly summoned at the reference to her china, came into the room. "Gentlemen! What is this?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Hudson," Holmes said, with that sincerely charming air he could draw on when needed. "One of my experiments has gone awry, and your china teacup has been damaged."

Mrs Hudson swatted him on the shoulder. "Really, Mr Holmes! There's no need for that, I'm not one of your cases. Fortunately, I learnt my lesson long ago about what you will do to my good china. That was specially bought, just for you, the worst china I could find. For all your deductions, I dare say you hadn't even noticed!"


	112. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Winter WInks 221: Fever.

Distracted by her baking, Mrs Hudson barely noticed the faint knock on her door. She stopped kneading and listened for the sound to come again. At the second knock, she wiped her floury hands on her apron, and went to open the door, already saying, "Mr Holmes isn't in-"

An Irregular fell through the doorway from where he had obviously been leaning on the door, immediately curling up on the floor of her front hall like an injured animal. "Mrs 'udson," he whimpered, head barely raising from the floorboards, "I don't feel too good."

"Doctor!" Mrs Hudson screamed. She crouched beside the poor boy, hand flying to his forehead. It was burning hot.

Dr Watson came rushing down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the front hall. "The boy?" he asked, already crouching down beside her. "He's very dangerously ill. We need to get him upstairs." He slid his hands under the boy's back and knees, starting to lift him up, then faltering.

"Your shoulder, doctor!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, also rising to her feet.

Watson waved her off with a distracted smile. "It will keep. We need this boy upstairs now." He adjusted his grip, and started up the stairs, Mrs Hudson following behind. Once they arrived, he laid the boy on the lounge, and went to fetch his medical bag.

Mrs Hudson sat beside the boy, one she now recognised as Little Sam. He looked even smaller than usual lying there, face red and sweat beading on his brow. She was just wondering if she should get a cloth to wipe it off when Watson re-entered the room, medical bag in hand.

He checked the boy over, searching for injury or other symptoms, as Mrs Hudson watched, and comforted Sam when he whimpered. Finally, Watson sat back. "It appears to be a very severe strain of the flu. The most worrying symptom is that fever: if we get that down, he should recover."

"My mother always used a cold bath," Mrs Hudson advised, stroking Sam's hair. "Said it froze the fever right out."

"Do you have one here?" Watson asked.

"I've got a tub." She got up, heading for the door. "I'll just go fill it up for you."

The tub wasn't a proper bath, being meant more for washing clothing than people, but Sam was small enough he should fit in. Once it was filled, bucket by bucket, Mrs Hudson called upstairs, "The tub is ready, doctor!" She waited for a few minutes, enough that she began to worry, but finally Watson came in, carrying Sam, and placed the boy in the tub.

Immediately Sam began to thrash, sending water spilling across the room. Watson held on tighter, keeping the boy in the water even as he struck out wildly. Over the next few hours, his thrashing gradually grew weaker and weaker, until he was once again still. Watson felt his forehead. "The fever has broken. He should be alright now."

Watson lifted him out of the tub, then nearly dropped him as his shoulder gave out. Mrs Hudson hurried over. "Dr Watson!" she scolded. "You must be more careful of that shoulder! Here, I'll help you carry him."

Between the two of them, they got Sam upstairs, lying on the lounge as he was before. Mrs Hudson sat down beside him. "I'll stay with him, if you'd like to sleep, Dr Watson."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but I wouldn't feel right leaving him alone now." Watson sunk into his usual chair. "Now that the fever's broken, he should recover, but he'll still need a few days until he's up and running around again."

"He can stay with me," Mrs Hudson said. "I could use another pair of hands while baking." She contemplated it, how nice it would be to have a child in the house, someone else there to keep her company and help her with all her holiday baking. It was a pleasant thought.

Eventually, she looked up, curious at the lack of reply, and smiled involuntarily. Watson had fallen asleep in his chair. Tonight, she would watch over both of them.


	113. Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No prompt today, but I wrote something anyway.

Holmes and Watson had stopped in the park, resting after a long morning of walking through holiday crowds. Holmes was watching the people in the park, occasionally muttering small deductions under his breath, evidently enjoying the chance to practice his skills. Watson was watching his friend, stretching out his aching leg, and laughing softly as some of Holmes's more interesting asides.

Feeling a soft tap on his leg, Watson looked down into the face of a little girl, brown eyes wide, sneaking quick glimpses at his companion.

"'Scuse me, mister," she whispered, a soft lisp blurring her words. "Is that Mr 'Olmes?"

"Yes, he is," Watson replied, smiling at her. "What's your name, little one?"

Her eyes widened. Watson wondered if anyone had asked her that before. "Susannah, mister."

"That's a pretty name."

She nodded at him. "My mammy picked it." With childish carelessness, she switched topics. "Do you think Mr 'Olmes would - would say hello to me?"

Her eyes were big and brown, a very effective plea, and enough to stop Watson from asking any more questions. He smiled at her again, taking her small hand and enfolding it in his. "Of course, Susannah." He turned towards, Holmes, raising his voice slightly. "Holmes, you have a fan who would like to meet you."

Holmes turned, and seeing the little girl, a flash of discomfort was visible on his face, too quick for any but Watson to notice. "Good day."

Susannah stares at him, too awestruck to speak.

"Her name is Susannah," Watson prompted, beginning to enjoy this strange encounter.

"Good day, Susannah. Why did you wish to talk to me?"

She mumbled something, eyes transfixed on his face. Watson squeezed her hand. "A little louder, Susannah?"

She took a deep breath, then it all came out in one big rush. "You's in all the stories mammy tells us, about the mysteries you solve, and you knows things just by looking at people, and it all sounds so nice and I want to be like you."

Holmes looked startled by the outflow of words. "Anyone can deduce. The problem with most people, is they see, but they do not observe. Take that man over there, for instance." Holmes pointed out someone walking along the other side of the park. "What can you tell me about him?"

Watson sat back, feeling quietly contented, watching Holmes teach a little girl how to truly observe the world.


	114. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Wordwielder: Surprises.

Watson opened the door to his bedroom, then took a sudden step backwards. "Holmes?" he called down the stairs, eyes remaining fixed on what lay within the room, "why is there a python on my pillow?"

Still not daring to take his eyes from the snake, he heard, not saw, Holmes come up the stairs behind him. "This was not me, my dear doctor. All my snakes have remained safely in my room." Holmes made to move closer, but Watson held onto his arm.

"That python can stretch half the length of its body, Holmes," he informed his friend quietly. "I've seen it kill men in Afghanistan. Don't go any closer."

"A python does not end up on your bed by accident, Watson," Holmes told him equally quietly. "I must investigate."

"Very well." Holmes made to move forward again. Watson tightened his grip, stopping him. "Just, please. Be careful."

Holmes laid his hand over Watson's, a promise that needed no words. Watson let him go.


	115. Starry Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Wordwielder: Starry night.

The stars glowed in the night sky overhead, shining down on the little scene. A couple was walking home through the deserted streets, their little boy clutching their hands as he walked between them. All three of them were smiling in wonder at the beautiful constellations. They were on holiday, far from home, and this was the first time the little boy had ever seen the stars.

He dropped his parents' hands, running ahead with his eyes firmly fixed on the sky, laughing at how the stars stayed the same. His parents slowed down, enjoying his reactions. They had so little time to themselves most days, and even less time outside. This holiday was exactly what they needed.

A quiet whoosh sliced through the air. The man fell to the ground with a choked gasp. His wife screamed, falling to her knees beside him. Their son came running back and was gathered into his mother's arms. The stars looked down on the scene, no longer bright, but cold and distant.

Not far away, in the upper rooms of one of the nearby houses, Moran disassembled his air rifle, packed it into a bag, and left through the back door. He didn't look up to the stars. He didn't need them.


	116. Elements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Winter Winks 221: Fire, Earth, Air, and Water.

Holmes' world was made up of many elements.

Fire was Mrs Hudson. Not a blazing bushfire, or a small candle flame, but a hearth fire, warm and homely. She was always there to come back to, made 221B a comfortable place for all. Even a hearth fire can bring down a house, though, and when Mrs Hudson brought down her fury about broken china or stained floors, her blaze crackled around the whole room.

Lestrade was Earth; dependable, and always there. With every case, he became more solid and sure, while beneath, strains of silver or gold were waiting to be discovered. One day, there could be something valuable there, but for now, it went beneath the surface, unseen and unknown.

Air was Mary. She was a gust that blew in occasionally, but was always there in the background, unseen but felt. When she came by, she disrupted things, sending Watson off in a tailspin, and

Watson, Watson was Water. Watson was steady, looking calm, but running deep underneath. He was necessary, a soothing presence, and hidden depths. In a moment, still water could be whipped into a storm, dangerous but fascinating, just as Watson was.

Every element Holmes had in his life was an essential part, something needed and necessary. Really, it was elementary.


	117. A Most Unusual Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Winter Winks 221: a strange and bizarre crime with no obvious solution.

"I must say, Holmes," I said, crouching down and examining the body. "This is quite an unusual crime."

Holmes prowled around the crime scene, sniffing at some things, laying down full length to get a better look at others. "Indeed, Watson. I have not encountered anything quite like this before, nor even have a similar crime in my files. This crime seems to be absolutely unique." He paused his investigations, turning to Watson. "Cause of death, doctor?"

I gestured to the bloody imprint in the skull. "This would be the obvious cause of death, but from the bruising, it seems that this happened post mortem, though very soon after, no more than a few minutes. The actual cause would appear to be strangulation...with this." I pulled a long strand of aluminium off the body, showing it to Holmes.

Holmes looked uncharacteristically surprised. "Tinsel?"

I nodded.

Holmes began to pace across the alley, speaking out loud, as was often his wont when it was just the two of us. "The only inhabitants are the mother and her children, none of whom have the strength required to strangle a man of this size, and besides that, there is only one pair of footsteps besides our victim. The killer is clearly a heavyset man, taller than the average, and," he showed me a strand of white fur, held between his fingers, "wearing a fur coat. This fur is much finer than anything that would be found in this neighbourhood, but the footsteps disappear at the edge of the house, suggesting someone familiar enough with the area that they know a way up."

"This wound is an unusual shape too," I interjected. "At first I thought it had been made by a horse, but if it is, the horse was unshod. There are some small characteristic markings missing."

"I believe, Watson," Holmes said, after a moment of thought, "that this will be a three pipe problem. Let us return to Baker Street."

Holmes hailed a carriage, and we left the scene behind. Despite much thought, and a truly horrible quantity of shag tobacco, Holmes never did manage to solve the problem of the Christmas Eve Murder.


	118. Menorah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Aleine Skyfire: One of the characters observes Hanukkah. Who is it, and why? 
> 
> I'm not Jewish, so if I've gotten anything wrong, I'm terribly sorry.

Wiggins knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street, the Irregulars clustered around him. Mrs Hudson opened the door. "If you've come to see Mr Holmes, he's out."

Wiggins didn't move. "When will he be back? We've got important news for him."

"Not that he ever tells me, but in just a few hours, I should think."

"Can we see your Christmas tree?" A little Irregular interrupted. Wiggins hastily went to shush them, but Mrs Hudson smiled. "Of course. It's a cold day, I think you could do with some time indoors, away from that wind."

The Irregulars trooped upstairs after her, gasping in awe at the beautiful Christmas tree standing proud in the corner of the room. They clustered around, admiring the dripping tinsel and shiny ornaments. All except one.

Big Sam - rather a misnomer, as she still didn't reach Mrs Hudson's shoulder - was looking around the room, brow furrowed like she was searching for something. Finally, she turned to Mrs Hudson. "Where's the menorah?"

Mrs Hudson beamed. "That's downstairs, dear. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson don't celebrate Hanukkah. That one's just for me."

"Oh." Her brow was still furrowed. "But why?"

"Why do I celebrate? That's what my family always did. When I married Robert, we celebrated both." For a moment, she looked wistful, her smile fading. "We had hoped that someday, we'd have children to... but that never happened."

Sam looked hopefully at her, biting her lip. "Can I see your menorah?"

Mrs Hudson took her by the hand, leading her back towards the stairs. "Of course, child. Let's go have a look."


	119. A Secret Hobby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from I'm Nova: a secret hobby.

Moran threaded the needle, reading himself to do repairs. Sewing was something any man should know, as far as he as concerned, and nothing to be ashamed of. An army man like himself needed to keep his equipment in perfect working order, and that required good skills with a needle.

Today, though, was not about fixing clothes. He was fixing soldiers, his companions. The ones who had always stayed with him. There had only been a few of them at first. They'd been by his side since childhood, and had stayed with him every since. He'd added on over the years, and now there was quite a number of them, all there with him to the death.

He laid the first one on the bed, examining the injury. There was a hole in his arm, one that would only get bigger if left to its own devices. He looked the soldier in the eye. "I'll need to fix this, but you're strong. You'll make it."

The soldier looked placidly back. Even as the needle entered into him, pulling the edges of the wound together, he didn't make a sound. Finally, the wound was stitched, and Moran moved on to the next.

This was a soldier he had seen many times over the years, his oldest companion. This friend had come under his needle many times before, but had carried on each time, never letting anything bring him down. He was looking older now, thinner than he used to be, more worn, but he was as steadfast a friend as ever.

Moran nodded to him, threading his needle again in preparation. This one also didn't speak, but his eyes were filled with understanding. Just as he was about to insert the needle, the telephone rang.

Only one person ever called that telephone, and only ever for one thing. Moran went to answer it immediately.

"Sir Gravesham. By three o'clock Wednesday," Moriarty's voice came over the phone line.

"Understood." Moran replied. He hung up the phone and went to retrieve his gun. On his way out, he stopped beside the bed, where the needle was still waiting to be used. "I'll come back for you later," he promised his little soldier, picking the teddy up from the bed and looking at him seriously. "This needs to be done first, but I will leave no man behind."


	120. Fan - Remix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece for chapter 113, Fan.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock clambered up onto the bench beside his brother, tugging Mycroft's sleeve for balance. "Mycroft, what are you doing?"

Mycroft sighed softly, closing his eyes. Of course his little brother would insist on following him, even all the way to the park. Ah, well. While he was here, he might as well teach him something. "I'm observing, Sherlock."

"What's 'bserving?" One pudgy hand pushed back golden curls, the bright eyes underneath fixed on him.

"That's o-bserving, Sherlock, with an o," Mycrodt corrected. If he was going to do it, first he needed to know how to pronounce it. "Say it again."

"O-bserving," Sherlock repeated obediently. "What's observing, Mycroft?"

"Observing, in its simplest form, is looking at people," Mycroft began, all too aware of little grey eyes looking adoringly up at him. "However, it is also far more than that. To observe is not just to see, but to notice. If we take that man over there as an example," Sherlock's gaze followed his pointed finger to a man across the park from them, "what can you tell me?"

To any outside observer, it would have been a comical scene; the older boy, no more than twelve, sitting on the bench, his little brother beside him, both staring quite seriously out across the park. To the two boys, of course, this was a very serious matter, one that demanded all due attention.

"He's got a brown coat," Sherlock finally said, brow furrowed. "And he's walking really fast."

"Why might he be walking fast?" Mycroft prompted.

"Because he's late?" He looked up at his brother, and received a nod of approval. A beaming grin lit up his face. "You do one, Mycroft, you do one!"

"Alright. See the woman over there with the little girl? Well..."

As Mycroft explained his observations to his brother, who was soaking up every word, he had no idea that this moment, and this lesson, would be the foundation for what his little brother would one day become - the World's Greatest Detective.


	121. A Wilder World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from cjnwriter: Craziest AU you can think of.

"I do say, Mr Holmes," said the little white rabbit, rising up on its hind legs. "This is not why I asked you to come here!"

The fox took no notice, slinking between the bushes, nose against the ground. It raised its head, stopped, then let out a little sneeze. "Watson!" it said, disgruntled. "You have a better nose than I. What was here?"

The black terrier came closer, lowering its head to the ground and sniffing. "Smells like otter. Only a very young one, though. Odd, otters never usually travel this far from the river."

The fox looked thoughtful. "Unless it was on the trail of something very particular."

"Mr Holmes!" The rabbit interjected again, hopping up and down with agitation. "I asked for your help with a murder investigation, not to sniff out a missing otter!"

The fox took no notice. "Watson, I believe our next step will be at the riverbank. I know a frog there who may have more information for us. And Lestrade, your murder is simple. Look for the water droplets on the wall."

The fox and terrier took off through the underbush, side by side as ever, leaving the indignantly hopping rabbit behind them.


	122. An Unexpected Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Sparky Dorian: An unexpected journey.

"Well, my dear," Mrs Hudson called, being pulled along by a very hurried Mary, "this is not how I thought I would be spending my evening!"

"Quickly, Mrs Hudson!" Mary pulled the older woman around a corner and kept running, flinching as gunshots rang out behind them. "We need to get those keys back," she said, voice whipped away by the wind.

Mrs Hudson didn't need to hear her to know how important it was to retrieve the keys. That was their entire reason for being out here tonight, and how they ended up in this precarious situation.

Their race was brought to an abrupt halt by the river, and the long drop down to it, spanning across their road and leaving no place else to run. Mrs Hudson turned to look behind them, watching the light of the man chasing them draw closer and closer. "Mary," she whispered, transfixed by the sight. "I think you should know, I'm very glad you came to see Mr Holmes all those years ago." She turned to Mary, feelings of love overtaking her fear. "You've been like a daugh- what are you doing?!"

Mary, expression determined, had stepped up to the edge. "This will not be the end. We've still got a chance." With a wild leap, she jumped from the edge, skirts billowing out around her. Mrs Hudson took a moment to pray for their safety, then jumped after her.

Both of them landed in the river with a splash, struggling to stay afloat with their heavy skirts weighing them down. Their pursuer came to a halt at the edge, peering down at them, then laughed. He walked away, not noticing the boat that came up beside them.

"Help!" Mrs Hudson called, spitting out river water. "We need help!" Mary joined the cry, and together they caught the attention of a passenger on deck.

"There's two women down there!" he cried. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to throw down a life buoy, and within a few minutes, both women were standing on deck, dripping water, shivering wildly, and surrounded by a crowd of wealthy party-goers.

"Mrs Hudson? Mrs Watson?" An unexpected voice came from the crowd, and a man stepped out of the crowd and toward them.

"Mr Holmes, do you know these two ladies?" Another man asked, also stepping forward from the crowd. From his dress, he appeared to be the host of the party.

"This is my brother's landlady, and his companion's wife," Mycroft said smoothly, taking in their condition at a glance. "They appear to have been chased by a gunman this evening, likely the same man that has been robbing houses around West London, and only escaped him by jumping into the river. Very forward thinking of you, ladies."

Mary, overcoming her surprise, murmured her thanks.

"Of course, after such a stressful evening, I should escort them home," Mycroft continued. "If you'll excuse me, your Grace?" He addressed this to the host, who waved his hand obligingly, still looking rather confused.

Mrs Hudson and Mary were similarly confused, but followed Mycroft off the boat once it had docked, and into a nearby carriage.Their wet dresses were quite uncomfortable by this time, and they were keen to return home and change into something else - once the essential keys had been retrieved.

"I thought you didn't like parties, Mr Holmes?" Mary ventured, in an attempt to break the awkwardness of the silent carriage.

"There are some invitation that, for the sake of diplomacy, are impossible to refuse, however unpleasant." Mycroft gave a delicate shudder, one almost unsuited to his great girth. "Now, ladies. What was the item that you were trying to retrieve when the thief began chasing you?"

The two women looked at each other, shocked. "A set of keys," Mrs Hudson finally replied.

"Of course. Then I shall send someone to retrieve it for you."

They just nodded. The rest of the drive to Baker Street was silent, as they worried about the keys, and tried to ignore how their dresses were clinging uncomfortably.

Next morning, the keys were sitting on the kitchen counter.


	123. Coldest Night Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from cjnwriter: Record-setting low temperatures.

"It's f-f-f-freezing!" Wayne's teeth chattered loudly as he huddled into his tattered coat. "I ain't ever seen a winter this cold before!"

"Me neither, and I'm older than you!" Big Sam said, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

"We're almost there," Wiggins said, bravely striving forward against the freezing winds. "Then we can go home, out of the wind."

The Irregulars nodded gloomily. For some of them, they didn't have much of a home to go back to - this trip would be the warmest they were going to get.

They reached Baker Street, and Wiggins knocked on the door. Mrs Hudson opened it and ushered them inside. "Goodness, you must be freezing out there! Come on in, children. Go sit by the fire upstairs, it's warmer in there."

The Irregulars went upstairs. Opening the upstairs room, each one of them let out a sigh of relief as they crossed the threshold into the warm and cosy room.

"There's plenty of room by the fire," Watson advised them, smiling brightly enough to warm the room himself. "You can sit there and rest for a minute."

They sat down, apart from Wiggins, who went over to Holmes to report their findings. Even he, though, was affected by the cosy room, as his eyes blinked more and more frequently, trying to stay open.

"Sit down, Wiggins," Holmes finally told him. "I may need you in the morning, so you and your band should spend the night here."

Wiggins nodded, and sat by the fire, completely missing the fond look Watson gave Holmes behind his back. Amongst the huddled pile of warm bodies, with the fire crackling merrily in the background, Wiggins finally gave in, and fell asleep.


	124. End of an Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt from Aleine Skyfire: The end of an era.
> 
> A 221B to finish off the 2016 challenge. I wish all of you a happy New Year, filled with many stories and joy!

"It's been a long time, my dear friend, hasn't it?" Holmes remarked, looking fondly at Watson, in a way he would have thought unthinkable when they first met. Now, though, as an older and wiser man, he did not bother to hide how much their friendship meant to him, especially on an occasion such as this.

Watson returned the look, feeling his own wave of affection for his oldest and dearest friend. "It certainly has. I just wish it had been a happier event that brought us back together again."

Their gazes travelled over to the church, where a large crowd were already gathering for the funeral. Some were crying, while some just stood there stoically; others just seemed happy to catch up with their old friends who were also attending.

"He lived a good life," Watson continued, eyes still on the gathering. "His death will be a loss to the whole of London. So many people have reason to be grateful for his efforts. I must confess, however," he continued, turning to Holmes with a wistful smile, "that what I will always be most grateful for, is that he introduced me to you."

Holmes and Watson joined arms, and walked into Stamford's funeral together. For this man, who had introduced them many decades earlier, they would always count themselves blessed.


	125. Play With Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kidlock 221B.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock tugged on his older brother's sleeve, short legs stumbling in their attempt to keep up. "Mycroft!"

Mycroft stopped with a long suffering sigh. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Wide grey eyes looked up at him earnestly. "Will you play with me?"

"No." Mycroft shook off his younger brother and kept walking. Sherlock ran after him, quickly losing ground against Mycroft's much longer stride. "Mycroft! Please? Mummy's busy, and nanny's in the kitchen talking to cook, and I need someone else to play with!"

Mycroft slowed, but didn't stop. "Why can't you just play by yourself?"

"It's no fun playing by myself. I want to play with you!" Sherlock finally got in front of his brother, standing directly in Mycroft's path with his arms crossed, stopping Mycroft from going any further.

Mycroft stopped in front of him and crossed his arms, a near perfect reflection of the younger, even down to their stubborn scowls. "I'm too old to play with you, Sherlock. I'm twelve now. That's practically grown up."

"Mummy plays with me, and she's grown up," Sherlock countered.

Their gazes locked. Stalemate. Mycroft looked away first. "I'm not going to play with you, Sherlock. You'll have to find someone else."

"But there is no one else!" He came closer, tugging again on Mycroft's jacket. "Please?"

"Alright, fine!" Anything for his baby brother


	126. The Trying Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the Dying Detective.

"A neat little mystery," he said, sitting back in his chair and lighting his pipe. "Quite clever in some aspects, though not so clever as to be unique. The springbox, for example. I have heard of very few of them, but I have still heard of them."

"How can you be so casual, Holmes?" Watson burst out, pacing up and down in front of the mantelpiece. "You could have died! What if you had not noticed the spring, and it had pricked you? You could have been lying here these past three days, dying, with no help to be had!" He collapsed onto the sofa, the day's emotions crashing over him.

Holmes looked over at him with concern. "My dear Watson, I apologise. I had not considered the affect my possible death would have on you, beyond the necessities of the case."

Watson wiped a hand over his forehead. "I know, Holmes. But this has been a trying day for me... do you think Mrs Hudson would mind if I spent the night in my old rooms?"

Holmes offered him a fond smile. "I do not believe she would mind at all."


	127. An Evening In

"What has you so dour this evening, Watson?" 

Watson continued to stare dolefully out the window, looking out on to the dark and rainy street below. 

"Watson?" Holmes moved closer, careful not to startle his friend. In the early days of their acquaintanceship, there had been more than one occasion a hand on the shoulder had led to a violent takedown, and Holmes had had the bruises to show for it.

This time, fortunately, no further effort was needed. Watson turned from the window, looking up at him with forced cheerfulness. "I'm terribly sorry, Holmes, I must have been distracted. Did you need me for something?" 

"I was simply inquiring about your unusually subdued mood, Watson." 

Watson's cheer faltered. "It's nothing really to worry about, just... Mary was supposed to stop by this evening. Of course, in this rain, that would be impractical, but..." He trailed off, gaze drifting back to the window. 

"Ah." Holmes retreated in the face of unknown sentiments, but could not resist offering some form of consolation to his disappointed friend. "Perhaps some music would be a good distraction here?" 

Watson glanced again at his friend, his smile smaller but more genuine than before. "If you wouldn't mind, Holmes, I would enjoy that very much."


	128. Haunting Winds and Jaunting Tunes

The wind howled outside 221 Baker Street, rattling the windowpanes and sending scraps of litter blowing down the street. 

Watson shivered, moving closer to the fireplace. "That is quite a night out there, Holmes. A night for ghosts and ghouls, I dare say." 

"It's just wind, Watson," Holmes replied. In previous years, such a response would have been barbed, edged with disdain for such romantic notions. Now, after such long acquaintance, it had softened, more fond reproach than anything approaching harshness. 

"I have not heard a wind like that for quite some time." Watson huddled closer to the fire, gaze drifting as he recalled a crisp Afghanistan wind, heavy with the scent of blood. However long he lived, some things were unforgettable. 

Holmes, sensing the turn he had taken, retrieved his violin from its case. "Tonight, my dear Watson, I have a better sound for you." He took a few moments to tune the violin, then began to play, a happy jaunting tune quite at odds with the wind outside. 

Watson sat back, a smile slowly growing as he watched Holmes and his violin. By the time the song had finished and Holmes had started the next one, the roaring wind outside was forgotten in favour of lighter pleasures. For the two in Baker Street, tonight would have no more blood.


	129. Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of the Hades Lord of the Dead December Challenge for 2017! I should be posting a new piece every day, once I've caught up as I started a few days late. Today's prompt was snowed in.

“Really, Holmes,” Watson said, watching his friend pace restlessly across the floor. “It could be worse.” 

Holmes whirled, turning on his companion. “Worse? We are snowed in to this cabin, unable to escape and stop our thief, who even now could be returning to London with his gains! Pray tell, Watson, how could this be worse?” 

“To start with, we could have been left without any supplies.” He swept a hand towards the cupboards, indicating the generous store of canned goods and brightly blazing fire. “And if we are snowed in, our thief likely is as well. Didn’t you say that he must have a cabin in these woods for him to store all that he steals?” 

“Turning my words against me, Watson,” Holmes muttered, but he came to sit on the other chair, staring bitterly into the flickering flames. 

Watson handed him his pipe, and they smoked for a few moments in peaceful quiet. 

“I suppose it really could have been worse,” Holmes finally spoke, mood mellowed by a good pipe and quiet company. 

Watson nodded. “In the morning the snow should have stopped, and we can start digging ourselves out.”

He turned to empty his pipe, and Holmes caught his wrist. With quiet sincerity, he said, “There is far worse company to have for a night such as this.”


	130. Candelight Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was candlelight vigil.

“Will ‘e be alright, Doctor Watson?” 

Watson closed his bedroom door softly behind him, sighing as he looked down into the small fearful faces clustered around him. “I will watch him tonight,” he said, voice weary. “If he can hold on ‘til morning, he should recover. Now, all of you, off to bed.” 

After a momentary hesitation, the boys drifted away towards the study, talking quietly amongst themselves, and some sneaking fearful glances back at the bedroom door. 

Watson leaned against the door, sighing agin, more deeply than before. It was hard to believe that something as simple as a snowball fight had led to this. Really, it should have been harmless, but one slipped foot, a young face frozen in terror as Jamie careened backward, followed by a terrifying crack as the ice broke beneath him... Watson shook the thoughts away, unwilling to recall again that petrifying moment when Holmes had pulled the boy out the ice, lips turning blue from cold and lack of air. 

Reentering the room, he pulled his chair over to the bed, settling in for a long stay. Until morning... if Jamie could only survive until morning.


	131. The Irregulars Solve a Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These rhymes are far from perfect, but it's what came to mind. Prompt was the Irregulars solve a case on their own.

The Irregulars grouped together

On a cold and windy day, 

To solve the mystery of the feather, 

Which had fallen in their way. 

 

It was long and it was bright, 

A beautiful shade of red. 

But when they held it to the light, 

It looked almost brown instead. 

 

"Where could this come from?" they all cried. 

"We have never seen its like." 

"Why don't you find out?" Mrs Hudson replied. 

"You never know what you might strike." 

 

So they set out, an intrepid group, 

Wandering to and fro, 

Only to find a chicken coop, 

Before they had far to go. 

 

The chickens clucked all around the space, 

As Mrs Hudson stood by. 

The chicken coop was her own place, 

That she watched with an eagle eye. 

 

"Excellent work," she told the boys. 

"And now if you don't mind, 

That feather is my nephew's toy.

But I have a reward of greater kind." 

 

She took the boys in to her table. 

Where a chicken feast lay prepared. 

The boys ate as much at they were able. 

Not a single dish was spared. 

 

Mr Holmes had solved greater mysteries, 

the boys agreed as one. 

But in all his varied histories, 

their reward was second to none!


	132. Mrs Hudson's Dance Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Mrs Hudson needs a partner for a dance.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hudson," Dr Watson said, a flush beginning to rise in his cheeks as she helped him back towards his chair. "I would have loved to dance with you, however-" 

"Don't worry, doctor." She patted him on the arm. "I am very grateful for your offer, but you just sit and rest that leg of yours. It won't do me any harm to sit out a dance." 

"Perhaps Holmes would dance with you?" Watson suggested, lines of pain easing as he settled into the chair, no longer putting pressure on his leg. 

"I believe my brother has already returned home," a deep voice interrupted them. "Social gatherings have never been his forte." Mycroft nodded at the two of them. "Good evening doctor, Mrs Hudson. Doctor, I hope you will not mind my stealing your company. I would be honoured to dance with Mrs Hudson in your place, in gratitude for the two of you managing to persuade my brother to attend this event even for the short time he remained." 

Mrs Hudson blinked. "No gratitude is required, Mr Holmes. I shouldn't like to trouble you." 

"It is a trouble I am more than willing to take." He held out a hand. 

Mrs Hudson, with one confused glance back at Watson, took it.


	133. Phobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was an unexplainable phobia.

“Mr Holmes, I have an update to the case you may– what in heaven’s name is that?!” 

Holmes looked up, entirely unperturbed by Lestrade’s dramatic cry. “This is a garden snake. Don’t worry, it’s quite harmless. Garden snakes are not poisonous.” 

Lestrade did not move away from the doorway, staring at the snake with wide eyes. “But what is it doing in your living room?”

“I believe this snake may be the clue to our murder weapon." 

Lestrade’s face grew impossibly paler. His fingers began to shake. “You said th-that thing wasn’t poisonous!” 

“Of course it isn’t,” Holmes agreed. “Do try to keep up, Inspector. I did not say the snake was our murder weapon, simply it was the clue. Now come with me, I must return to the scene.” 

For every step closer Holmes took, still carrying the snake, Lestrade stepped back, until he reached the bannister and could go no further. Desperately, he tried to protest. “Wouldn’t you prefer to have Watson?” 

“Watson is at out on a call with a patient, and will not be back for several hours,” Holmes informed him. “You, inspector, are right here. Now do come along.” 

Lestrade instinctively closed his eyes as Holmes swept past, unwilling to see even a hint of the snake. Then, after a firm reminder to himself that he was a police officer, and there were greater things at stake here than his own silly fears, he continued out after Holmes – remaining, however, several long steps behind.


	134. Mycroft In Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Mycroft is in peril.

Drip. 

He stood in the dark, all alone. 

Drip. 

He had come here with four. Now there was just him. 

Drip. 

One had run from the danger. 

Drip. 

Two had died protecting him. 

Drip. 

One had been the betrayer all along. 

Drip. 

No one knew where he was. 

Drip. 

This would be the end. 

Dri-

“Holmes, I can hear something!” 

“Mycroft, if you can hear me, shout!” 

Maybe the end could wait another day.


	135. Trivial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was trivial.

"John, you know I don't mean to dampen your enthusiasm, but doesn't this seem... a little trivial?" 

Instantly, Mary wished she hadn't said anything. John visibly deflated, the light leaving his eyes to be replaced with the all too familiar look of deep unhappiness that had been lurking there since he'd returned from Reichenbach. "You're right, Mary. I'll go put them away." He moved to gather up the little mittens that he had brought in that evening, when he had been eagerly exclaiming about the tiny differences in embroidering between them.

"Darling, no." Mary reached out a hand to grab his arm. "I love that you're so excited about this, really, I do. It's nice to see you looking so lively again. Just, does it really matter so much whether the flowers are yellow or white? The baby's not even born yet."   
Both their gazes were drawn to Mary's stomach, which was only just starting to swell. John's smile returned, a soft, fragile thing. "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I, Mary? She won't care what colours the flowers are." He ran a soft hand over her stomach. 

Mary covered it with her own hand. "No, _he_ won't care at all." 

John embraced her, the two of them standing silently for a moment. 

"John," Mary whispered into his shoulder. "If it is a boy..."

He hummed softly in acknowledgement. 

"I think we should name him Sherlock."


	136. Lestrade and Gregson's Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt: How did Gregson and Lestrade's rivalry start? I've been procrastinating this one, because this is hard, I've honestly, never thought about it before, but hopefully you'll enjoy this!

"Gregson?" 

"Hmm?" The other detective looked up from his snack to see Lestrade watching him suspiciously.

"What have you got there?" 

Gregson sat up and tried to look innocent. "Just a small gift. It was brought into the station for me, you know." 

"For you?" Quick as a flash, Lestrade snatched the sweets box off the desk, reading the label aloud. "For the Scotland Yard Detectives, for bringing my mother's necklace back to me. Te-" He mumbled through the next part, before finishing, "Mrs Badem!" He waved the note around triumphantly. "This is for all the detectives, Gregson!" 

Gregson licked the powdered sugar off his fingers. "Then I guess you can have the rest."

Lestrade rifled through the box, only to come up empty. "You ate them all already! And-" he sniffed the box, "they were those jellied ones, my favourites!" 

"It seems only fair, the best detective got the reward," Gregson replied. "You were barely more than a nuisance on that case."   
Lestrade bristled. "And who solved that mystery about the dead body in a kitchen just last week? Where were you then?" 

"I was busy finding who had kidnapped young Tom Smith! And I found him alive, too!" 

As they continued to bicker, the empty sweet box fell to the floor, forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words Lestrade stumbled over were 'Teşekkür ederim'. meaning thank you in Turkish.


	137. Candelabra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Candelabra

"Murdered?" 

This was always the most difficult part, telling the family. I nodded. "Yes, murdered. We believe the weapon used was a candelabra." 

"Murdered? With a candelabra?" The young heiress sounded distantly shocked. Well, I supposed, the murder of your dear brother was a rather shocking subject. It was no surprise she was having trouble processing the information. 

"Yes, murdered with a candelabra." I confirmed. Maybe hearing it again would help her to understand what had happened.   
"But it's Christmas!" Tears started to form in her eyes. 

"Yes, miss." I wanted to comment on how murder doesn't stop for the holidays, but I feared making her cry harder. 

"Richard doesn't even like candelabras!" She started to sob. 

I sighed, handing her my handkerchief. Next time Mr Holmes says, "Lestrade, you can take all the credit for this, leave my name out of it," I will remember this moment, and tell him, "No thank you, Mr Holmes. Give it to Gregson instead!"


	138. Death At The Right Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Death at the right time.

Dirt thudded down on the coffin lid, covering up the pink carnations that had been carefully placed on top. Only glimpses of pink remained, the rest choked out by the unforgiving soil. 

A couple approached Watson, distracting him from his brooding thoughts. "Sorry for your loss," Lestrade said, his wife's hand clasped firmly in his. "Your missus was quite a woman."  
"Mary has been one of my very best friends," Eliza agreed, damp handkerchief clutched in one hand a testament to her grief. "I remember so many evenings spent together, sewing and chatting. She was the first one I told about Thomas, you know. Even before this one!" She leant her body into her husband, a small smile coming to her face. "It's just so hard to believe she's..." A sob escaped her, and she brought her handkerchief up to cover her face. 

Lestrade pulled his wife closer, letting her sob into his shoulder. "We'll miss her," he quietly told Watson, before leading his wife away. 

Watson returned his gaze to the coffin, vision blurring. It seemed too impossible for Mary to be gone. Just two weeks ago he'd been watching her as she sorted through her jewellery, the two of them laughing together at some small trinket Holmes had bought her as a misguided apology for her getting involved in a dangerous case, and for once, the memories hadn't hurt. Now, she was lying in a box, and he would never laugh with her again.   
A hand came up and clapped him on the back. "Hey, doc." 

Watson wiped his tears, and turned around. "Murray! I didn't think you'd make it." 

"Course I came, doc." He let his hand fall. "Just wish I'd come in time to meet her." 

The two of them stood a moment in somber silence. 

"She'd been fighting for a long time, mate," Bill finally said. "Maybe it was just the right time." 

Watson swiped at his eyes. "Maybe it was," he agreed. In his heart of hearts, however, he could not imagine any time when Mary's death would be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pink carnations mean "I'll never forget you."


	139. A Warming Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was a warming cup.

"There we are, dear, a nice warming cup of hot chocolate for you." 

Mary gratefully accepted, the warmth of the cup banishing some of the numbness from her fingers. "Th-thank you, Mrs Hu-Hudson. I'm so-sorry to be such a b-bother." 

"Nonsense!" Mrs Hudson bustled about, taking blankets from the cupboard and settling them around Mary's shoulders, until Mary was swathed in a cocoon of warmth. "Though really, I'd thought better of the doctor, leaving you out in the cold like that. I will be having words with him, I assure you!" 

"Oh, no, John did nothing wrong!" Mary protested. "I came to surprise him, he didn't know I'd be coming. John would never leave me out in the cold." 

Mrs Hudson gave Mary a warm smile. "That's good. It didn't seem very like him, but I've been long enough in the world to know that even the nicest seeming men can do some very terrible things." 

Mary held her gaze firmly. "Never John." 

"Alright then, dear," Mrs Hudson said, her smile taking on a peculiar twist. "Never John."


	140. Exactly What It Says On The Tin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Exactly what it says on the tin

"That's all it says: exactly what it says on the tin." 

Watson frowned in confusion. "Exactly what it says on the tin? And that is all that the tin says?" 

"Exactly," Gregson confirmed. "You see my problem, Mr Holmes?" 

"Quite an interesting dilemma you have there, Inspector," Holmes mused. "May I?" Upon Gregson's nod, he took the tin, turning it around in his hands, examining it from all angles. "It is a former sweet tin, that seems to have been repurposed for this new cause. Much loved by its owner, and several years old. Beyond that, I cannot tell." 

"You can't know if the owner loved it!" Gregson protested, snatching the tin back and examining it for himself. "What, did they scratch a message on it with little hearts?" 

Holmes drew himself up to his full height, scowling at Gregson. "If you will not accept the truth of even the simplest deductions, you are perfectly able to leave, and solve this mystery for yourself." 

Gregson looked alarmed. "Of course not, Mr Holmes. Just curious, that's all. Seems like more than you can tell from a glance." 

Holmes relaxed his posture again. "The scuff marks around the edges of the tin show that it has been much used, and opened time and time again. Why would someone not simply buy a new tin, rather than carry around the old one, unless it was much loved? As for it being a sweet tin, and several years old, I have penned a short monologue on the different types of sweet tins throughout the last decade. This one was last produced four years ago." 

"And what of it being repurposed?" Watson asked. 

"If there were sweets inside, the weight would be spread more evenly, and it would rattle as it was moved. Instead, the weight is concentrated in one space. Whatever is in that tin, it is no longer sweets." 

"So, what, exactly," Gregson asked, "is in that tin?"


	141. A Christmas Parcel In A Strange Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was A Christmas parcel in a strange place

"Mr Holmes!" Our landlady's irritated voice came drifting up the staircase, inciting the attention of both Holmes and myself. 

"What have you done now, Holmes?" I asked, a smile coming to my lips. Only the day before Holmes had been berated for accidentally singeing Mrs Hudson's Christmas stockings, and again last week for not stopping the Irregulars from eating the popcorn garlands. As amusing as it was to me, Mrs Hudson had been quite upset.   
An irate Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. "This is the last straw, Mr Holmes, really it is!" 

"I have been in this very room all day, Mrs Hudson, as Watson can attest," Holmes declared. "Whatever has happened to your Christmas presents, I was not involved." 

Mrs Hudson looked to me, and I confirmed, "Yes, Mrs Hudson, Holmes has not left the sitting room all day. What has happened?" 

Her ire now dispersed, Mrs Hudson collapsed onto the nearby chaise. "I have been wrapping presents all day, and I had just finished wrapping the final one, when I turned around and saw one was missing!" 

"Which present was missing?" I inquired. "Perhaps that would provide a clue as to where it went?" 

"Yours, doctor! And that was why-" she blushed, eyes cast down. "Not to be rude, Mr Holmes, but I had thought that you may have taken it, for ideas on what you might get the doctor for Christmas."   
"Of course, Holmes did nothing of the kind," I forestalled his indignant protest. "Perhaps someone else may have taken it?" 

"I would propose a much simpler solution," Holmes said, looking marginally less offended now that I had defended his good character and gift-giving ability. "You had care of Miss Reilly's cat today, did you not?" 

"Yes, I did!" Mrs Hudson looked shocked. "How did you know?" 

Holmes did not answer, though I could see from the black cat hairs on Mrs Hudson's skirt where he drew his deduction from. "Is it possible that the cat found the presents, and chose to play with them? In my experience, cats are often attracted to shiny things like wrapping paper." 

"I suppose it might have," Mrs Hudson said. "But where is the present now?" 

"I have a theory." Refusing to elaborate any further, Holmes led the way downstairs, and, to my and Mrs Hudson's mutual bemusement, towards the chimney. He poked around with the fire poker, sending ashes scurrying across the room, until a small black box wrapped gaily with a ribbon dropped to the ground. "Would that be the present?" 

Mrs Hudson picked the box off, wiping off some of the ash with her sleeve to reveal bright red wrapping paper underneath. "Yes, this is it! Thank you, Mr Holmes." She wrapped one arm around him in a, from his alarmed expression, entirely unexpected hug. "I should have known you would never take one of my presents."   
Mrs Hudson returned to her presents, and Holmes and I returned upstairs, Holmes still looking a bit bemused. "Next time, I believe," he said, "I will let the present stay missing!"


	142. Red Herring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Red Herring, with the additional challenge of including a million dollar bag, and making it about romance.

“But what about the bag?” I asked. The million dollar bag had been my first introduction to this mystery, and Holmes had not mentioned it at all. It seemed unlikely he had forgotten it, both as he was not a man prone to forgetting, and a stolen bag, valued at one million dollars and which the police force had been hunting for the last two days, was a very difficult thing to forget. 

“The bag is meaningless,” Holmes said, a slight smile on his lips.

“Meaningless?” Lestrade blustered. “That bag has been at the very centre of this mystery, and still has not been found! I don’t know what a million dollars means to you, but to me and Scotland Yard, it is very far from meaningless!” 

“It is meaningless because it never existed.” 

Lestrade gaped. 

“The million dollar bag was only ever a ruse,” Holmes elaborated. “A red herring, meant to distract us while the young man searched for his bride.” 

Wilson loosened his grip on his young lady long enough to look at us, tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t lose Elsie, I just couldn’t!” he choked. “I knew if I said there was a million dollar bag missing, the police would be too busy searching for it to question where Elsie went.” 

“My father has been looking for me,” Elsie continued, wiping at her eyes. “He has been trying to take me back to America, away from my Richard. I said I wouldn’t leave my husband behind, but he seemed so determined to take me, I was afraid of Richard getting hurt, so I ... I ran.” 

Lestrade gave the young lady a sharp nod, collecting his wits in the face of a tearful woman. “You’ll be safe now, miss. You and your husband can return to your store, and if there’s any more trouble with your father, the police can handle it. As for you,” he turned to Wilson, “you’ll need to make an announcement about that bag. It has caused rather a lot of fuss.” 

Wilson nodded, blinking rapidly. “Of course, of course I will, whatever you say.” He turned to his wife joyfully. “We’re free, Elsie! It’ll be just the two of us from now on, no father, no running, just us!” He picked her up and twirled her around as they both laughed in joy and relief. “We’re free!”


	143. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Sleeping Beauty.

"Look," Jamie said, tugging on Wiggins' sleeve. "Look at her, over there." 

Wiggins turned to look. His mouth dropped open. "She's gorgeous," he breathed. 

The boys wandered closer to the store window, breath fogging up the glass. "She looks like she's asleep," Wiggins said. "D'you think she might be?" 

Jamie nodded, curls bobbing up and down. "She's a sleeping beauty, just like the story in the book." His nose scrunched. "I don't want to kiss her, though." 

"What abut if she kissed you?" Wiggins teased. "Lots of kisses, all over your face, with her tongue all over you! Like here, and here, and here-!" For each 'here', he poked Jamie's face, causing the younger boy to push his hands away, protesting loudly. 

In a few minutes, Wiggins stopped, too busy laughing to continue. Jamie wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to keep frowning. "Look, you woke her up!" 

He crouched down in front of the window. The puppy barked happily at him, pushing her nose up against the window. "Hello, sleeping beauty," he told her. "Sorry we woke you. But at least it was better than a kiss!"


	144. Mrs Hudson: Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was Mrs Hudson is undercover.

“Mrs Hudson, what _have_ you been doing?” Watson exclaimed. 

“I’m afraid it was very confidential, doctor,” Mrs Hudson told him, turning away to carefully place her bejewelled necklace on the mantle. The firelight made the gems inlaid into it sparkle brightly, almost as though they were real diamonds. “All I can tell you is that I was doing a bit of undercover work for Mr Holmes.” 

“For Holmes?” Watson’s brow furrowed. “I must admit, he had me quite convinced he was Christmas shopping today. I never would have suspected he was on a case.” 

“Oh, he’s not, dear,” Mrs Hudson said airily. She shrugged out of her wrap, and Watson helped her without even thinking, marvelling at the softness of it. Surely it wasn’t real silk? “It wasn’t our Mr Holmes. It was Mr Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Mycroft?” Watson carefully folded the wrap, placing it on the mantle beside the necklace. “I mean no offence, Mrs Hudson, but why...?” 

Watson trailed off onto silence, unable to think of a suitably delicate wording. 

“Why me?” Mrs Hudson finished for him with a laugh. “I can’t be sure, it was all very secretive, but I think it may have been a training for some of his new staff.” 

“Nothing too dangerous, then?” 

“No, doctor.” She laid a consoling hand on his arm. “I’ll leave the danger to you and Mr Holmes.” She patted his arm, then took her hand away. “Now go on upstairs, and I’ll be there in a few minutes to bring you a nice cup of tea. It’s a bit late for it, but I think we can make an exception.” 

Watson looked at Mrs Hudson, puttering around the kitchen with her apron tied around her waist, a far cry from the regal and imposing woman dressed in fineries he had seen when he came in. “I’m glad you enjoyed your undercover work, Mrs Hudson.” 

Mrs Hudson’s voice made him pause as he was climbing the stairs up to apartment B. “Thank you, doctor. I really did.”


	145. Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was chocolate

"But what can I get for Mrs Hudson, Holmes?" Watson paced across the floor, stroking his moustache in agitation. "We have caused her such a lot of trouble this year, and she has been very understanding through all of it. It must be something special, but what?"

"Watson, do you really think I, of all people, will be able to suggest the perfect gift?" Holmes asked, raising one wry eyebrow. 

Watson stopped and turned towards Holmes, slightly embarrassed. " I was hoping you could deduce something." 

"I can tell you that she burnt the little finger of her left hand baking shortbread this morning, that she expects her niece to come visiting next Tuesday, that the milkman was late this morning and she is upset about it, and that she has finished her own Christmas shopping, but I am afraid none of that will help you find the perfect present." 

"How did you..." Watson marvelled, before shaking his head and returning to his pacing. "You are right, Holmes, none of that will help." 

"Mr 'Olmes! Mr 'Olmes!" A young Irregular came racing up the stairs, feet thundering, and sent the door flying open. "Mr 'Olmes! 'E's moving!" 

Holmes jumped to his feet, moving towards the door in quick paces. "Towards the river?" 

The Irregular nodded, breathing fast from his run. "'E's got a big bag with him!" 

"Thank you, Thomas, excellent work." Holmes was already halfway out the door. "Wait here, catch your breath, and the doctor may have something for you." 

As the door blew shut behind him, the little Irregular turned to Watson. "Do you, doc?" 

Watson smiled at him. "I think I have a jar of sweets here somewhere. Would you like one?" 

Thomas nodded, and within minutes was seated on the lounge, sucking away at a boiled sweet, telling Watson all about his day. 

"-and then I followed him all the way up the street, so I could see where he was going. I didn't even stop to look at the chocolate shop! I smelled it, though," he confided. "I could of stopped, it smelled so good. But I'd got a job to do, so I didn't. Didn't even look in the window! I just followed-"

"Chocolate!" Watson cried. "That would be perfect!" He turned back to Thomas. "I'm so sorry, Thomas, I've just had an idea for a Christmas present. I promise, I will listen to the rest of your story, just give me a moment to write this down." 

He quickly located a piece of paper from his desk, and scribbled a short note, before sitting back down beside Thomas. "Now, what happened after you passed the chocolate shop?"


	146. Dinner at Simpson's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was dinner at Simpson's.

"It's been rather a long time since we've done this, hasn't it?" Watson remarked, sipping from his glass. 

Holmes nodded slowly. "I suppose it has. That was to be expected, though, with your marriage, and moving out of Baker Street." 

There was a moment's silence. 

"The food is still as good," Watson ventured, breaking the quiet that had fallen between them. It felt somewhat awkward, sitting here with just the two of them. For a moment, Watson wondered if his marriage had changed everything, if they would never be able to go back to their previous comfortable friendship. 

"Yes." Holmes seemed just as awkward, and Watson was not sure if that made him feel better or worse. 

He decided he had had enough. He loved Mary with all his heart, and would never regret marrying her, but he would not lose Holmes' friendship because of it either. "Holmes."

Holmes turned his eyes from the window. "Yes, Watson?" 

Watson hesitated for a moment, considering if Holmes, as the very private person he was, would appreciate his words. Then he forged ahead regardless. "Holmes, you are my very closest friend. I love Mary very much, but just because I have Mary now does not mean I do not still value our friendship. I just," he stumbled over the words. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that." 

Holmes gave him a soft smile. "Thank you, Watson." 

The waiter came, and they thanked him as he took their plates away. 

Watson settled back in his chair, glass in hand. "So, Holmes, tell me about your latest case..."


	147. Christmas In A Foreign Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was a case means Holmes and Watson spend Christmas in a foreign country.

It sometimes happened, during the course of my friendship with Sherlock Holmes, that a case would take longer than expected. A witness would be unwilling to cooperate, evidence would be disturbed or unreliable, or there would be a sudden complication that eluded even Holmes' formidable mind. Of course, on most occasions, the most trouble this caused was a restlessness in Holmes' mind at the delay, and frustration on the part of the Scotland Yard detectives who bore the brunt of it. Rarely did it have any greater effect. 

One on occasion, however, the effect was quite more dire. Holmes and I had been in France on a case in late December. The case had taken longer than expected, only finishing on Christmas Eve. Of course, at such a time, there were no rooms to be had anywhere in the city, and no way of returning to London until after Christmas. In these circumstances, with Christmas only a day away, and having fully intended to be back in Baker Street days earlier, Holmes and I sought other accomodations. 

"Watson!" I turned to Holmes, trying to see him through the busy crowd. I eventually spotted him, his height standing out amongst the mill of people. 

"Watson!" Holmes made it through the crowd to my side. To my surprise, on his arm was a woman, small and slight of build, and very fashionably dressed, a hat with a feather covering her white curls. The lines of her face spoke to her many years, and she held Holmes' arm with a gentle but stately air. 

Holmes stopped before me, gesturing to the woman with his free arm. "Watson, this is my grandmother." 

His grandmother? Whatever I had expected, it was certainly not that. I took the woman's hand and kissed it. "I'm very pleased to meet you." 

As surprising as that was, that was nothing compared to what he said next. "She has agreed to let us stay with her until we can return to London." 

This was going to be a very interesting Christmas.


	148. Something Was Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was something was off.

"This is not right." Holmes paced back and forwards across the doorstep, note clutched in his hand. "It is entirely unlike Watson to leave so suddenly. Something is off with this." 

His audience of one leant against the door, watching him. "Really, Sherlock, it isn't that strange." 

He stopped, turning towards her. "Some of our cases have been quite dangerous, you know. Even if Watson has felt it best not to inform you, you should know that I have enemies, some of whom may use Watson against me. Perhaps even kidnapping him." 

"John tells me everything," Mary informed him. "The only cases he does not tell me about are the ones he cannot." 

"Then you know he could be in danger this very minute? The way these letters slant suggests that it was written in a hurry, perhaps by men desperate to move their hostage to somewhere more secure." He shook the note for emphasis, then returned to studying it, looking for further clues of what had happened to his Boswell. "I know Watson's writing as well as my own, he would not write so sloppily without the most serious provocation." 

"Like his best friend coming to the door just as he is leaving to buy him a Christmas present?" Mary asked, a mischievous smile rising to her lips. 

Holmes looked up from the note, uncharacteristically stunned. "Oh." 

"This is the first year since you've met he has a chance to actually surprise you, and he's been looking forward to it for months." She held the door open behind her. "Now, would you like to come in for some tea?" 

He looked stunned all over again. "Oh- Yes, Mrs Wat- Yes, Mary. I would."


	149. Star Trek Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was a crossover with a fandom of your choice.

"Why are we on this planet again?" Ensign Giles muttered to her companion.

Ensign Hughes elbowed her side. "We're picking up the spy, remember? Starfleet's undercover operative, keeping an eye on the Klingons? Now we're at peace, we're bringing him home."

"Then why's our CMO coming?" Both officers looked over at Chief Medical Officer Watson, striding along at the front of the group. Hughes turned to Giles and shrugged.

They came to the designated meeting point, where a man was already waiting, cloak shading his features. The rest of the group came to a stop, but Watson kept moving forwards, a smile growing on his face. "Holmes!"

The man threw back his hood, revealing aquiline features transformed by a large smile. "Watson!"

The two embraced.

Giles turned to Hughes. "Seriously? How does the mildest CMO on the planet possibly know an undercover spy?" Her voice grew, hands gesturing wildly, until she noticed the way Hughes was staring at her. "What?" She looked around. Silence had fallen in the clearing, as everyone had turned to stare at her. She blushed. "Uh, no offence?"

Hughes facepalmed.


	150. Living Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was A snowman (or snowmen!) comes to life. Is this a good thing?

"Holmes?" 

"Yes, Watson?" 

"Tell me; over there, is that what it looks like?" 

"If it looks to be a snowman walking towards us, than yes." 

"But - surely it must be an illusion! Snowmen cannot walk! Could it not be the Irregulars, acting out some kind of joke?" 

"The evidence would seem to suggest otherwise, Watson. We can see quite clearly all around the snowman, and there is no one close enough to be moving it." 

"What about someone inside the snowman?" 

"If someone was inside the snowman it would be moving differently. There would also be footprints left in the snow, or drag marks. Instead, the snow is pristine. No, in this case it appears that the obvious solution is the correct one, no matter how impossible it may seem. The snowman is moving." 

"And moving towards us." 

"Really?...yes, so it is." 

"It's almost at the door now." 

"It won't be able to get in." 

"Are you sure? It does have hands." 

"But they are made of snow!" 

"If we are accepting that a snowman has come to life and is walking down Baker Street, is it really so much more to suggest that it can open a door?" 

"I suppose not... Has it come inside?" 

"I can't see it out there." 

"The door looks to have been left open." 

A knock came from the door to 221B. Watson and Holmes exchanged a long glance.


	151. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was music.

It was the night of Christmas Eve, and all of London was sleeping softly in their beds, awaiting a morning of presents and joy. Even the children of the street, presents exchanged, had curled up somewhere safe for the night, waiting for morning to come, and bring whatever new fortune it may.

There was just one window still alight. One second story window, on Baker Street, most commonly known as the home of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Those who had met him would remember his companion, Doctor Watson - his companion, it so happened, who was the very one who had lit the lamp that night.

"Watson?"

Watson startled, turning from the window, at Holmes' sleepy voice coming from behind him. He mustered up a smile. "I'm very sorry, Holmes. I didn't mean to wake you. You should go back to bed, I'm sure you need the sleep."

"As do you, my dear doctor." Holmes padded over to his favourite chair, curling up on it like a lazy cat and staring at Watson. "Was it a dream?"

"No, not a dream..." Watson's gaze turned back to the window, looking out on the quiet city. Not a soul was stirring this Christmas Eve, and a low fog lay over the city, giving it a misty, dreamlike air. "Just a memory... more of a thought, really, of another Christmas Eve..." Watson's voice trailed off again, the dim streetlights flickering across his face.

Holmes slowly stood up, unwilling to disturb the pensive air that had fallen over his companion. Quietly, he retrieved his violin from its case, and began to play.

The gentle strains of a violin drifted through the quiet London streets. At the window, a doctor dreamed.


	152. Teatime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was teatime.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes!” Mrs Hudson bustled in, a tea tray in her hands. 

Holmes, like he had been every day since the wedding, was curled up in his favourite chair, eyes closed. Despite his usual tidy habits, his hair was dirty and uncombed, and his attire sloppier than she had ever seen it outside of a case. 

She placed the tray loudly down in front of him. “You have to eat something, Mr Holmes. It’s been days, and I’ll not be having the doctor come back to find you half-starved.” 

“But the doctor’s not coming back, is he?” Holmes turned away from her. “He and Mrs Watson have already chosen their new house, and moved all their things. He won’t be coming back here.” 

“Of course he will!” Mrs Hudson raised the lid of the cake tin, letting the smell of freshly baked bread fill the room. “Dr Watson is your friend, Mr Holmes. He’ll be back. After all,” she called behind her as she left the room, “he hasn’t put up with you through all your adventures and moods just to abandon you now!” 

Downstairs, she picked up the mail, quickly sorting through it. One postcard stood out, addressed to Mr Sherlock Holmes from an inn in Scotland. Mrs Hudson smiled. Hopefully Mr Holmes would pass on if the Watsons were enjoying their honeymoon.


	153. Chapter 153

Watson looked up as the book was dropped on to the table. "What's this, Holmes?"

"I happened to meet with a friend of yours today," Holmes told him. He retreated to his chair and perched there, watching Watson intently.

"A friend of mine?" Watson's eyebrows rose, and he picked up the book curiously, turning it over in his hands. " _Captain of the Pole Star_? Holmes, surely you know I already-" He opened the cover, and his voice cut off. Written neatly on the inside front over were the words, ' _To John Watson; most pleased to know you are a fan. Enjoy! Arthur Conan Doyle._ '

Watson's mouth dropped open, a gentle "Oh!" escaping his lips.

"I did know you already owned a copy, but I thought you mightn't mind having this one as well." Holmes reached out to take the book. "Of course, I-"

"Thank you!" Watson burst out. "Holmes, this is an incredible gift. Thank you, my dear friend." He ran his fingers over the cover. "I will treasure this."


	154. Coldest Night of the Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was coldest night of the year.

"Brrr!" Wiggins shivered. "It's cold out tonight, guv." 

Holmes barely spared him a glance, intently watching the door across the street. "We won't be here much longer, Wiggins." 

Wiggins subsided, tucking his hands even more closely around himself. He didn't have any gloves to wear - the pair Dr Watson had given him for Christmas last year had gotten too small, and he'd given them away to Charlie. 

"Wiggins, watch that man coming out now," Holmes crouched down, breathing the words into his ear. "He's not Palmer, but he may be connected." 

Wiggins nodded, and watched the man closely. The man walked up the street, then, with a furtive glance behind him, took something from his pocket and laid it next to a streetlight. Once he stood up again, he continued down the street, and disappeared around the corner. Wiggins peered closer, trying to figure out what the item he had dropped was. It didn't look very big; only about the size of an envelope. Whatever it was, it may be their best lead.

"Mr 'Olmes!" he whispered. "'E's d-d-dropped s-something on the street up th-there. Might be a c-clue." 

Holmes stood up abruptly. "Yes, we'll see what it is, then head home. Palmer seems set to stay in tonight." 

Wiggins nodded, teeth chattering, then followed after Holmes as they made their way up the street to the streetlight. Holmes picked up the package, unwrapping it to find an envelope inside. He opened the envelope and read the contents, before turning to Wiggins with a nod. "Excellent work, Wiggins. This is a solid lead on Palmer's organisation." 

"Are we going somewhere else, then?" Wiggins asked. He shivered again. It seemed even colder now than it was before. 

"Back to Baker Street. I need somewhere to think, and you need to warm up." He started striding back towards the main street, Wiggins struggling to keep up with his long legs. "And tomorrow, I will go out and buy you a new pair of gloves."


	155. Mrs Hudson's Backstory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was write a story in which more of Mrs Hudson's backstory is revealed.

"Mrs Hudson?" Watson called. His voice echoed through the lower part of the house. "Mrs Hudson, are you in?" 

"In the back room, dear!" Mrs Hudson called back. 

Watson made his way through to the back room to find Mrs Hudson sitting in an armchair, fingers gently rubbing over the painting in her lap. The painting was a portrait of a young couple, holding each other close, with wide green fields visible behind them. 

"Did you know I used to live in Ireland?" Mrs Hudson asked, voice shaky. "That's where I grew up, a little town outside of Cork. Then I met Patrick." She stroked the cheek of the man in the portrait. "He was a sailor. He loved the sea, dear man. Always talked about the smell of salt on the air, the wind whisking through his hair. I thought he was mad, at first. I only knew fishermen, but he was a tradesman." 

Watson murmured a response, not wanting to disrupt the story. 

"His ship had docked in at our village, needing repairs. They stayed for months. Each day, he would come to see me, and we talked, and started courting... it was wonderful. My family loved him, and so did Laura- I was a nanny to her little daughter. Laura's the one who painted this." She gestured to the painting, running her finger over the small white signature at the bottom. 

"Eventually, his ship was repaired, and he had to leave. But I wouldn't let him leave alone. We got married, and that was that, I suppose." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I never let him leave alone again. Not until..." She wiped her eyes again. 

Watson laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I understand." 

Mrs Hudson leant back into it. "Yes. I suppose you do."


	156. Artistic Merit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was artistic merit.

"Really, Holmes, you can't see the artistic merit in this?"

"Watson. This is a child's colouring picture."

"But look at the way they coloured it! Beautiful blue skies, the rolling green fields, with specks of white to represent the daisies. You must admit it has merit."

"I must admit nothing, my friend. It is tolerably well done, but nothing special."

"Nothing special in an adult, perhaps, but this is a child of only nine."

"A child of nine has all the opportunity to be creative, add their own touch to their pictures. No, Watson, my opinion holds true. This picture is merely adequate."


	157. Sleigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was sleigh.

"Slow down!" Watson shouted. 

"It's not me, it's the horses!" Mary shouted back over the storm. The wind whipped through her hair, spattering golden curls with snow. "They're running for their lives!" 

"That doesn't help if we don't survive this!" 

Rocks reared up ahead of them. 

"Mary! Steer around!" 

Mary pulled on the reins, guiding the horses around the pile with only centimetres to spare. Watson winced at the sound of the wooden sleigh scraping against stone. "Mary! We need to stop!"   
"I know!" Mary spotted something up ahead. "Wait! I have an idea." She steered towards the slope that had appeared off to their left. The horses, now having to pull a sleigh up hill, slackened their speed, slowing from their frantic gallop into a more relaxed trot, before coming to a halt entirely. 

The Watsons got out, rearranging their clothes and smoothing back their disordered hair.   
"Whatever Sherlock tells you," Mary told Watson. "Next time we investigate something for him, maybe not on our honeymoon?"


	158. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was old friends. Have a Happy 2018, everyone!

" _Should old acquaintance be forgot_

_And never brought to mind_

_Should all acquaintance be forgot_

_And auld lang syne..._ "

As the familiar tunes of the old folk song rang out from across the street, Holmes and Watson settled further into their chairs. 

"I do love this song," Watson said wistfully. "I remember singing it with James when we were boys, running about with the other fellows. I didn't care much for the lyrics then, just the sound, but it was still so beautiful." 

"It was Mycroft's favourite too," Holmes murmured, caught in the music. Watson turned to him at the uncharacteristic admission, but didn't interrupt. "He taught me how to play it. I never liked it much, but I played it for him for his birthday." 

"You're a good brother," Watson said softly. Such personal discussions were not something familiar to them, more used to quiet companionship, but this was a special night. "I'm sure Mycroft must have appreciated that." 

"He did." 

A silence fell between them, broken only by the song, still being carried along on the gentle breeze. 

"But the seas between us broad have roared," Watson sang quietly along, "From auld lang syne. Very true, isn't it?" 

"More true than I would like," Holmes replied. He looked down at his pocketwatch. "I can't stay much longer." 

"Not even until the end of the night?" Watson shook his head. "I'm sorry, I know you would stay as long as you can. I'm very glad we've had even this much time." 

Holmes reluctantly left his chair, standing up to leave. "I wish I could stay longer, Watson. But the work is never done." He held out his hand. 

Watson, with a choked sob, pulled him into a hug. "I'll miss you, Holmes," he choked into his friend's ear. 

Holmes' own eyes filled with tears; he gripped Watson's coat tight. "I will miss you too, my dear Watson. Stay safe." He forced his fingers to let go, and stepped back. 

Watson met his gaze, composure slowly returning. "Goodbye, my friend." 

"Goodbye." Holmes turned to leave. 

"Holmes!" Watson's voice turned him back. Watson, smiling shakily, called out, "Happy New Year, Holmes. Have a good 1918." 

Holmes swiped at his eyes. "You too, my friend." He turned to leave again, resisting the instinct to turn back just one more time. 

The final words of the song followed him down the street. 

" _We'll take a cup o'kindness yet_

_For auld langs syne._ "


End file.
